#21-inch wheels

[diagnozabam]

Aston Martin Vantage Roadster facelift: Performanță și rafinament decapotabil

Aston Martin a lansat oficial noul Vantage Roadster facelift, o variantă decapotabilă care păstrează esența performanței de top, aducând în același timp o serie de îmbunătățiri estetice și tehnice. După succesul coupe-ului facelift, constructorul britanic își extinde oferta cu acest model decapotabil impresionant. Designul exterior și dotările noi Noul Vantage Roadster facelift beneficiază de un…

[marvelfilth]

Angel (18+)

Pairing: stripper!Tara Carpenter x f! lawyer!reader

Warnings: no ghostface AU, Tara is 21, R is 27, smut, lap dance, pole dance, alcohol consumption, tipsy driving (pls don't do that), fingering, a bit of degradation and praise

Summary: You need to unwind. Angel gives you more than you could have ever asked for.

Masterlist

You've had a bad month. Scratch that, you've had the worst month of your career. You've lost one of your loyal clients to a rival and your boss chewed you out over it, and, to top it off, you've lost a case you've been working on for the past four months.

You blink back the exhaustion, leaning back on the railing of your office balcony. You've been nursing your whiskey for the past hour, hoping it'll chase away your gnawing thoughts, but to no avail, you're still deep in your head, rethinking every decision that led you to this.

You check your wrist watch, the platinum glistening in the city lights, and decide to finally head home. You finally relax once you're in your car, putting the key in the ignition and driving off, leaving the day behind. You take a familiar route, driving almost on autopilot and humming along to the song on the radio, fingers drumming on the wheel.

You're almost home when you change your mind and make a sharp turn on the next intersection, heading to a place you haven't been to in months.

Two men in the front greet you with identical nods, holding the door open for you, sensual music spilling into the bustling street. Your eyes zero in on the bar, not paying any attention to the stage and the dancers, happy to see a familiar face handling alcohol tonight.

"Tough day?" Amber asks with a sympathetic smile, placing a full glass in front of you.

"Tough month," you sigh, not in the mood for a conversation.

She offers one more smile before turning to another guest, sensing your desire to be left alone. Her eyes take on a new glint, lips slightly pursed in a cute pout as she talks to a clean shaved man. You scoff in your drink and shake your head, ignoring the glare she sends you.

Leaning back against the bar you settle to simply people watch for some time, maybe get a dance or two from a pretty woman.

"You should ask for Angel," Amber says, wiping the counter. You look at her in question, your glass stopping midway to your mouth. "She's new, but she's good. You could use some unwinding and she's the best at it, trust me."

You nod slowly and ask for a refill before leaving her a tip and walking off to a secluded booth in the back of the club, settling back on the couch and trying to find a new face in the sea of dancers you already know well. Out of the corner of your eye you see Felicity, a fiery redhead with no filter. She effortlessly glides on the dancefloor in her nine inch heels, red lingerie catching eyes of gaping men with pockets full of cash. She bends in a sensual move, her thong granting a perfect view of her round ass. You hum when money starts falling in waves, making the floor disappear. She deserves that and more.

She catches your eye, brow raising suggestively, to which you shake your head no.

"Waiting for someone?" A voice whispers right in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. Your head turns to be met with the eyes of a stranger inches away from your own, lips painted blood red and pulled into a smirk.

You swallow, feeling the swell of her breasts against your arm that's resting on the back of the couch, and shake your head tersely, not trusting your voice just yet. She bites her lower lip and pulls away to slowly walk around the couch, making sure to show off her assets.

Almost all of her body is bare, her lacy push up bra making her breasts look good enough to throw handfuls of cash at her feet. Your gaze is immediately drawn to the full globes, then lowers to a dark red triangle of fabric between her legs held by a thin string. She takes her sweet time in caging you against the leather cushions, draping herself over your lap, hands settling on your shoulders.

You take this opportunity to study her features: the slope of her small nose; the freckles dusted all over her upper cheeks; her dark and inviting eyes, eagerly drinking you up with the same vigor; her full lips, painted red and waiting to be claimed.

She takes your whiskey and sips, expertly masking the distaste behind an alluring smile, but you still catch the way her eyes momentarily squeeze in a fleeting grimace, making you bite back a chuckle.

"I'm Angel. What's your name?" She purrs, hips moving to the beat as she plays with the hair at the nape of your neck. You see some men glare at you with jealousy, their jaws grinding. Angel must be fairly popular to grant a reaction like that.

"Does it matter?" You husk, struggling to keep your hands to yourself.

"Mysterious, huh?" She chuckles, arching against your chest, her barely covered breasts almost spilling out right in your face, hips moving in circles against your crotch. "I like that."

You hum, settling back to watch her flexible body roll against your slowly relaxing one, her lower lip pulled between pearly white teeth.

"There you go," she whispers, sliding her palm down your chest, her other hand tangling in your hair, nails scratching your scalp. It feels so good you almost purr. "Tell me what got you so wound up."

You sigh and take another sip of your drink before answering. "Lost my top client."

She hums, her torso moving in a slow hypnotic circle, before leaning back into you to whisper right in your ear. "Their loss."

She pulls back to look you in the eye, the space between you almost crackling with tension.

"Hey Angel," one of the men that's been glaring at you calls out, waving a couple of twenty dollar bills in the air. "Come give me a dance."

She doesn't even look in his direction, but you silently reach for your wallet, taking out three hundred dollar bills and pushing them under the string of her thong. "Stay."

Her eyes widen and she bites her lip before nodding. She throws her head back, hands leaving your shoulder to slide up her waist to cup her breasts, pushing them together inches away from your face. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you have to grip your thighs to keep yourself from touching her. She rises on her knees and changes the position, her back now to your front, ass snugly against your crotch.

You finish your whiskey in one gulp, your breath hitching. Her wavy hair gets in your face and you breathe in the enticing scent of her perfume mixed with the essence of her. She turns her head, looking at you with half lidded eyes. "You like that?"

"I do," you reply, noting the slight blush rising on her cheeks.

"Want to move somewhere private?" She asks, her eager tone cracking the unbothered facade she's been putting on.

You nod and follow her to the other side of the club, Amber sending you thumbs up from behind the bar before going back to flirting with another drunk man, crisp bills filling her pockets.

You're led to a dark hallway that leads to private rooms, anticipation buzzing under your skin. She nods at the security guard, the man looking you up and down before he lets you through. She locks the door and you wander deeper into the room, taking a seat on the velvety couch.

Sensual music starts spilling from the speakers before she turns sharply, a devilish smirk on her lips. She saunters to the pole, hips swaying in tune with the music, eyes never leaving yours as she hooks her leg over the metal and twirls. She closes her eyes, losing herself in the dance, and grips the pole before bending, back arched, the swell of her ass right in front of your face.

You exhale, nearly biting down on your knuckles from the need to turn her around and fuck her right on the floor. "Angel," you breathe out. She faces you and drops to her knees, legs spread as her hips move up and down, arms over her head as she grips the pole. "Yes?"

You pat your lap and without a moment of hesitation she climbs on top of your thighs, taking off her bra. You bite back a moan when her breasts spill out, pinkish nipples begging for your mouth. She takes hold of your neck, her forehead pressed against yours as she rocks her hips on your lap, her breathing labored. She weaves languidly against your tense torso, her lips brushing against your cheek before she pulls away to settle her hands on your chest, nails scratching your white shirt.

"Fuck," you close your eyes, enjoy the press of lithe body, arousal coursing through your veins. She hums, her center flush against your thigh and you feel her wetness smear on the fabric of your slacks. Your fingers clench uselessly at your sides. "You're enjoying this," you state, searching her face for an answer.

"More than you can imagine," she whispers, grinding down on your thigh with intent. Her nipples brush against your chest and she moans quietly, repeating the motion. You unconsciously thrust up, your pelvis connecting with her heat just as she is rolling down, sending pleasure through her body. She grabs your shoulders and your eyes lock. You thrust again, intentionally this time, your palms planted firmly on the couch to add force. Her hips rock, her needy moans filling your ears.

You can't take your eyes off her.

Fuck that, you think, before planting your hands on her hips, directing her movements, and pulling her into a feverish kiss. Her lips are impossibly soft, and her tongue tastes like whiskey and some fruity cocktail she's probably had earlier. Your hands move from her hips to her breasts, squeezing.

"Yes," she moans, greedily pushing against you. "More, please."

You hesitate only for a moment before lowering your mouth to her nipple, sucking it in with hunger you didn't know you possessed. She bites on her knuckles, hiding a loud moan from the guards behind the door. Your fingers itch with the need to tear off her thong and plunge deep into her soaking pussy, claiming the most vulnerable part of the petite brunette.

"How does that feel?" Your teeth graze against the underside of her breast before you take the other nipple in your mouth, tongue sliding on the hardened nub.

"Like I'm about to come," she whimpers, messily humping on your thigh. "Need you inside," she pleads, taking hold of your hand.

You follow her lead, your fingers easily pushing her thong aside and dipping between her slick folds, strands of wetness clinging to your digits. She buckles against your hand in search of friction, and you teasingly circle her clit, pulling a delicious moan out of her lips. "Like that?" You tease, even though you're as affected as she is.

"Yes- fuck, just like that," she whimpers.

"What about the rules, Angel? You gonna tell your boss about this?"

She shakes her head. "No, I promise. Fuck the rules." She desperately clings to your wrist, pressing your palm against her heat.

It's all you need to finally thrust your fingers inside her cunt. She cries out, biting your shoulder to hide the sound, and starts moving her hips up and down, meeting your fingers halfway.

"Such a bad girl you are, Angel. Riding a stranger like a slut," you grunt, fastening your pace. Filthy sounds fill the room as your fingers keep disappearing in her pussy, bringing her closer to the edge. Suddenly, a misplaced spark of jealousy ignites something deep inside your chest. "Do you do this with everyone, Angel? Do you spread your legs for strangers every night?"

"No," she gasps, tilting your face up and bringing you in for a kiss. "Just you," she moans against your lips, "only you."

The fire inside your chest burns. "Good."

Her walls clench around you, mouth wide open as she moans loudly. You force her mouth shut, pressing your palm against her lips, her eyes widening before they roll to the back of her head. Your thumb slides on her clit in tight circles, fingers curling to touch her sweet spot. She bites down on your knuckles, desperately chasing her orgasm, arousal dripping down her thighs. You add a third finger, stretching her tight pussy, and spread them inside.

"Come for me, Angel," you rasp, pushing deep inside. She cries out, squeezing around your fingers as she comes. She curls into you, hiding her face in the slope of your neck. "Good girl," you praise, kissing her temple, your fingers buried inside her wet heat.

There's a loud knock and a gruff voice sounds from behind the door. "Everything alright, Angel?"

She sits up, eyes wide and alert, and looks at the clock near the door. Your private session ended ten minutes ago.

"I- I have to go," she scurries away, putting on her bra on her way to the door.

"Wait," you call out, catching her wrist before she could touch the handle. "Stay, please."

Her eyes flicker to your lips before she throws herself at you, hands around your waist, kissing you with fervor. You press her against the door, trailing kisses all over her neck, wishing you could leave marks for her to remember you by.

There's another knock and a threat to break down the door. Angel pulls away with one last peck before disappearing behind the door.

The rest of the week goes better after that night. You feel like the burden that's been sitting on your shoulders got smaller, granting you more hours of sleep and allowing you to look your boss in the eye without feeling inferior. You can't help but think back on the girl that so easily brought this change on you. Sometimes when you're caught up in paperwork in the late hours of night you catch yourself wishing you were back in that private room, looking at her instead of some boring corporate nonsense. Your fingers squeeze around the pen with need to touch her again, to unravel her, to savor her taste.

On a Friday night you decide to leave the office early and head to the club, but a phone call stops you in your tracks.

"Hey, hope I'm not interrupting."

You smile, always happy to hear from your friend. "You're not, I'm… heading home early."

"Great. Perfect, actually. I know it's a bit last minute, but I was wondering if you'd like to come over for dinner tonight? I'm making your favorite." Sam asks, and you can hear the sound of pans hitting the stove in the background.

"What's the catch, Carpenter?"

She groans, and you can almost see her slouch against the counter. "I'm not sure if I mentioned it, but Tara is studying to be a lawyer, and I thought maybe you could give her some pointers over dinner?"

You blink, surprised by the question. In two years of your friendship with Sam you've never met her younger sister. Even though they're living together, she's never home when you're over, working double shifts to afford tuition, adamantly refusing Sam's offers to help. She likes to complain about it from time to time, but you can see she's proud of the younger girl.

Angel will be there tomorrow, and you're actually excited to finally meet Tara. It doesn't take long for you to decide which way to go. You make a quick stop at a grocery store on your way there, buying Sam's favorite beer and a bottle of wine, thinking about offering her sister an internship. If she's even half as brilliant as Sam you want her on your team once she graduates.

When you finally knock on the door, expecting to see Sam on the other side, you feel wind get knocked out of you when the woman you've been thinking about since you left the club opens it.

"... Angel?"

_______________

Thoughts?

[dabisbratz]

PLAY DATE (CHERRY)— aizawa shouta x male reader

wc: ~6.5k

cw: dilf!aizawa, babysitter!reader, sexual tension, slow burn, spanking/impact play, finger-sucking, d/s undertones, daddy kink, praise, manhandling, age gap (21 yr old reader, 41 yr old aizawa), porn with plot, size difference/kink, spit/drool, degradation, rimming, hand holding, full nelson, creampie, breeding kink, light feminization

a/n: yes i was listenin to lana while writin this! howd u know?!

The click of a mouse. The sound of a scroll wheel grinding against plastic— rubbery and restricted. A family of five, four, three..family oriented individuals with more kids on their hands than time. It was late, even for you. Who scoured the internet until the sky’s inky black atmosphere was painted a pacific blue. From there, you’d tend to sleep into the late hours of the evening, beneath the comfort of a heavy weighted blanket, until your phone went off or a nightmare pulled you from your slumber.

Your dry, tired eyes trace the blurry words of your computer screen, the bright white light beaming through the depths of your continuously darkening bedroom. The room is almost radio silent— save for the occasional crunching of chips between your teeth and the fan of your laptop working overtime. The text is almost hard to read, shying away behind a hazy glare.

‘One kid—6 year old girl. One pet— black bombay cat.’

Sounds promising. The letters are arranged in a blunt manner, straight to the point and even somewhat intimidating, but the clear boundaries and requirements listed are fair enough.. Maybe even tilted in your favor. Your cursor wanders, ready to further inspect the profile presumed to belong to the parent who created the listing.

Shouta Aizawa, a middle-aged man with a salt and pepper beard, long hair to match, and a distinctive scar below his eye— which looks milky and clear. The other, however, is a deep pool of brown, warm like melted chocolate. His irises melt into his long lashes, which remain straight and strict, much like the demeanor he emits in the headshot photo. It must be reminiscent of his ID, as his career is listed just below his picture.

Owner of Eraserhead Industries.

Huh.

Chewing the fleshy insides of your cheeks, your eyes dart across the screen, hesitantly inching the cursor over the bright, bolded ‘message’ button. Sparks ignite in your stomach, blooming in the expanse of your tummy as you type out,

‘When can I start?’

You hear yourself squeal, pushing away your mouse with your fingertips and hiding behind the warmth of your palms before your computer chimes in response. The message stares back at you, perforating into you as you read it over and over, trying to imagine how this—practicably— rich man would sound. You settle for a deep voice, giggling to yourself as you read out the message.

‘The sooner the better.’

The man is much scarier in person, and your imitation of his voice was nowhere near accurate.

His voice is much deeper than you thought, gravelly and not nearly as riddled with giggles like you’d tacked on. In fact, it only seems to deepen as he nurses a mug of black coffee, just one large hand completely shielding the cup in its entirety. He’d ordered it, busying himself with the sheets of paper he had placed upon the polished table as you explained just how much whipped cream you’d wanted in your milkshake to the waitress.

He takes up most of the space on his side of the booth in the homely café, his layers discarded and shed along the plush seating. The man with dark eyes, Shouta Aizawa, is a natural born leader. The physical embodiment of sticks and stones, seemingly stronger than Zeus himself, he seems to have no faults.

But that’s not what you should be focusing on, not now, when you’re preoccupied with narrowed, umber eyes. They look at you with nothing but impenetrable suspicion, remarkably intimidating despite belonging to someone who looks incredibly angelic. Tufts of frosty hair, unruly and disheveled and divine. The sun dawns down on Musutafu, framing his locks in a makeshift halo. He looks like a fallen angel, of sorts.

“I don’t trust my kids with other kids,” He says, watching the dark amalgamation of caffeine swirl in his porcelain cup. Does he consider his cat to be his kid, too? “How old are you?”

You perk up, straightening your back as you push your straw in and out of your sickeningly sweet milkshake. Whipped cream clings to the plastic, sticky and bubbly with foam, “Twenty-one, sir.”

Aizawa makes a face at that, steely eyes drooping further with the pinch of his dark eyebrows. They slot perfectly, intricate wrinkles firming between them. Did you… fuck it up? You’d consider yourself an adult— comparable to law, anyway. And you can be mature, especially when it counts, so there shouldn’t really be a problem!

It’s evident he loves his kids, despite the hard exterior that he’s showing off there’s a fatherly glint to his eye. A protective overlay to his words. It’s admirable, if anything. You’d even call it charming, the way his eyes bore into you from the outside-in and pick you apart, if it wasn’t so damn scary being on the receiving end.

“Do you drink?”

“…No?”

“Do you plan to?”

More of an interrogation than anything, you take an awfully long time to reply as you use his suspension as an opportunity to savor your milkshake.

“No.”

You make sure to sound more confident this time.

His questions have been asked before, over text and in a manner not as… blunt as you hear it now. But it’s all down to perception, and you’d managed to wrongfully pin Shouta Aizawa as a care-free, laid back guy. Though, from the looks of it, he seems to live up to the ladder. And, upon closer inspection, it does nothing to tarnish his looks.

“Mm,” Is all he says, humming in acknowledgment as a check is placed his way. “You’re young.”

“Young enough to be your son?” You ask, mouth faster than your brain, and suddenly you can’t stop. Your lips curl upward, a smile gracing your lips as you giggle, “People probably think you’re my sugar daddy or somethin’.”

He doesn’t seem to completely respond to that, letting the comment fly into the air as he shifts. Heat somersaults into your face, heating your body up until you find yourself unable to hold eye contact. Nice going.

You wrap your lips around the plump cherry slowly sinking into your drink, twirling the stem between your teeth. It explodes in your mouth, sharp and sweet along the expanse of your tongue, a nice distraction.

Something alien flickers behind his eyes, “Tech savvy?”

“I— Yeah! I play video games,” You almost forget this is an interview, not a date. The thought makes your brain a little fuzzy, cotton forming in your mouth as you stumble over your answer. “Not— Y'know, never on the clock.”

Shouta looks much more vulnerable with his head turned, his veiny hand reaching into the pocket of his inky pants, pulling out an equally dark credit card. No way. His handwriting is illegible, but the swooning waitress deems it acceptable, thanking him for the tip with a high blush on her cheeks. There isn’t a single ring on his calloused fingers, so it’s almost shocking he doesn’t jump at the opportunity

“Good. Eri likes games.” It’s the most praise you’ve heard all night, and hearing it from the deep rumble of his throat makes it even better. Your gaze must linger, because his dark eyes are staring back into yours, almost looking right through you.

“Eri? Your daughter?”

“I don’t like sharing personal information online.”

You laugh nervously, filling your mouth with the melting drink before he can comment.

“I—Woah, sir… your home is… beautiful.” It’s not just flattery, you genuinely, sincerely mean it. You’ve seen it before, sure, through text and under much more professional scrutiny, but the camera doesn’t do it justice. His house aches with love, wrapped up in kisses and enveloped in a sweet, cinnamon-scented embrace.

There’s a heavy amount of childish memorabilia, like crayon drawings hung up on his stainless steel fridge, miscellaneous toys littering the floor, and a pair of tiny shoes resting next to your own. They look comically small, glittery and pink and utterly, indubitably, reminiscent of a six year old girl. Especially in comparison to the sleek, black sneakers Shouta slips off next to them. Utterly, indubitably, reminiscent of a forty-one year old man.

Aizawa makes his way through the living room while you marvel in astonishment, taking in the sights of his house. Surprisingly, despite his not-so-settle display of wealth, his home is the opposite. It’s the real thing, with lived-in floors and comfy furniture..lively and bright. Sure, his sofa is a muted gray, but the portraits and polaroids and children’s drawings make up for it.

You follow along, nearly tripping over some misplaced barbies and action figures as you quickly remove your shoes and stumble forward. Like a newborn fawn, unfamiliar to its own legs, you walk forward with a bashful smile.

It was almost easy for you to forget that he’s human, and not some strong-willed work-machine designed to finish tasks and take care of children.

But the way his joints pop when he shifts a certain way, the way sweat trickles down his forehead after a long day of working in a stuffy office, proves otherwise. It was then, you realize, that he is all flesh and bones. Not pen ink or an indestructible force.

“Eri’s… picky. Try exposing her to different foods every now and then, there’s a list of recipes she likes on the fridge.”

Shouta’s leaning against the marble of his open-island kitchen, socked feet melting into the cold tile. You half-expected his socks to be just as dark as his clothes, so it’s a pleasant surprise to see cartoonish cat faces littering the fabric.

Right—anyway. You nod, though it’s mainly reserved for yourself, as your eyes rake up the words stuck to his fridge. Freshly printed out, not an inch out of place, you wonder how many times he’s done this. The gears turn in your head, clicking and grinding until your lips part, a breathless expression keyed into your facial features. Wait.

“Does that mean—”

“I’ll text you the extra details. Eri’s bedroom is upstairs, but you should wait for her to show it to you when she’s ready.”

Your apartment is a flimsy excuse of a home, nowhere near as intricate and thoroughly loved as Shouta’s. Walking inside, you realize just that, there isn’t even a hint of glitter or gleam as you walk through the front door. Even though you have yet to meet her, Eri’s already brightened up your life. Your walls scream with loneliness, the sound bouncing off each corner until you’re tucking yourself into bed and curling up beneath the sheets.

And though you barely know him, you can’t help but want to follow the childish urge to open up the website you found Aizawa’s listing on to study his headshot.

Eri, you’ve come to learn, is a very smart kid. Perhaps too smart for her own good, too observant, and way too excited to express said observations. You sit taut on the gray sofa, leaning over a sheet of paper as you carefully color between the lines of the thick, inky, coloringbook outline. But Eri’s got her own leaflet, vigorously coloring something she has yet to allow you to look at.

You haven’t known her long enough for the leaves to brown, to fall off and make room for winter. You haven’t known her long enough to see the leaves return, the chilly air slowly descending into something softer, quieter. Warmer with summer’s welcome. But she grew to accept you rather quickly.

It started soon after your first meeting with Aizawa, and to your dismay, you hadn’t really seen much of him after that. Only small traces and fragments, like the religious filling of Present Meow’s food bowl or notes tacked onto the fridge.

Admittedly, you kinda miss him.

You’ve become quite engrossed in Eri’s choice in television, watching the cartoon with just as much excitement as the six your old. It even makes you laugh, hearty and dinkum.

“How do you feel about niku-dofu for dinner tonight, Er-bear?” She barely moves, her tongue held between the corner of her lips as she furrows her brows in concentration. Whatever she’s coloring is much more important than dinner, apparently.

With outstretched limbs, you stand, reaching for the sky as a yawn is pulled from your chest and your eyes grow heavy. Being dragged along by a six year old all day is exhausting. The hairstyling, the nail-painting, the hero-pretending…the dolls.

(Eri quite enjoyed acting out soap-opera levels of dramatic scenes with dolls. And, of course, you could only be the man in these scenarios.)

But you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’ve grown attached in the span of a few weeks.

“I’ll take that as a yes then!” You chirp, setting down your finished page with a sense of pride. Might even have to add a signature to it!

With Eri’s toys scattered along the floor, despite your constant advisory to clean them up, walking through the house has become quite the challenge. An obstacle course of sorts that Aizawa must’ve been a master at getting through.

Aizawa… With dark circles that cast shadows down his mature face. With stubble that’s cleanly shaved, not a single hair out of place.

Aizawa…With his long, dark hair that frames his face with thick bundles.

Aizawa… Who almost constantly looks disgruntled, faintly pink lips pulled into a tight line.

Him and his signature crisp, black button up that barely fights against his large chest and his matching pants that cling to his stupidly strong thighs.

It makes your brain a little fuzzy, the thought of his equally large biceps bulging in his shirt as he crosses his arms and stares down at you through the bridge of his nose. And his eyes— piercing and domineering staring straight into yours, lips curled as he berates you like some sort of misbehaving child.

(Which you’d spent a lot of time arguing with him about through sticky-notes…The fridge is powered evidence, covered in neon paper as you remind him you’re ‘not a kid!’ beneath his ‘not bad, kid’ post-it note.)

“Hey? Are you okay?” Eri’s small voice snaps you out of your haze, wide and virtuous red eyes blinking up at you. Clutching her drawing to her chest, she shifts her weight between each leg. Her small smile is gone, so you do your best to conjure up a frolicsome grin.

“Never felt better! Finally ready to show me what you’re working on?”

“Mhm,” She hums, reminiscent of her father.

Eri’s picture is nothing short of sweet. Advanced for her age, she’s drawn three figures that resemble the three of you— herself, Aizawa, you— sitting happily at the generously furnished dining table. On her lap sits Present Meow, a black ball of crayon-esque fur, who has small, wobbly hearts above his head. You all do, actually, some bigger than others (e.i: you quite literally have heart eyes that take up more than half your crayon face), but big nonetheless.

Is your crush on her father really that obvious?

“Oh, Eri, that’s—”

The front door trembles, the doorknob clicking and jingling as it welcomes silver keys. Before your eyes, Shouta’s welcoming himself in, strong right arm pushing the door open. His shoulders are draped in exhaustion, his gray scarf tangled around his neck as he shuts the door behind him.

Embarrassment wells up in your stomach, overflowing until you’re hiding Eri’s drawing behind your back. He doesn’t typically come home this early. Usually within the late hours of the night, into early morning, he can be seen rummaging through the fridge for a drink until he heads upstairs, straight to bed.

Instead, he’s stalking forward.

Did his steps always shake the house like this, or are you just imagining it? You must be, it must be your heart in your ears, because your face is flooding with warmth as he towers over you and peeks over your shoulder.

“What’s behind your back?” He lifts an inquisitive eyebrow, faintly smelling of cigarette smoke.

“What? Noth—”

“Look!” Eri snatches the drawing from your clammy hands and pushes it into Shouta’s abdomen. He hunches over, just slightly, before taking in the image.

“Jesus, kid,” He clicks his tongue with a tenderhearted sigh, looping his thumb around the waistband of his black slacks. “You’re somethin’ else...”

You’d have thought it was meant for Eri if his gaze didn’t flicker up to meet yours.

Dinner rolled around fast, and you’d found yourself nicking your finger on one of Shouta’s large, sharpened knives. Cutting up a small portion of potatoes shouldn’t have been so trivial, a pained gasp escaped your lips as you pinched the tiny wound. You wince, instinctively sucking on the skin of your mangled finger.

“I told you to be careful,” He took your hand in his, swallowing it whole with his palms, and went as far as to berate you, grumbling, “Watch yourself. Are you okay?”

Breathless as you watched him open a nearby drawer, he pulled out a kiddie bandaid, decorated with polka dots and even more cats. You held still, letting him wrap the bandage around your finger nice and tight. And then, only then, did he place a small kiss on top.

“There you go, all better.” It’s a passing comment, only pried from his lips because he was so used to saying it to Eri, and he didn’t seem to realize just how flustered it made you. So you coughed into your hand, secretly hoping the warmth permeating off his body would return to your skin.

Now, with dinner finished, Eri has no problem shoveling the food into her mouth. Must've been all the running around, gave her an appetite fit for a grown woman. It’s not like you have room to talk, you’ve almost choked on your side of miso soup a whopping three times. Shouta seems to be the only composed person at the table.

“You got a little,” Shouta points to the corner of his mouth, waving his willowy finger in a quick, circular motion. “Right…there.”

“Hm?” He watches your face contort, timid and self conscious. He can’t help but smile, just a small upward quirk to the corner of his lips, that slowly disappears as he leans in to wipe off a few grains of rice from the side of your mouth.

There he goes again, acting all domestic, as he raises the same finger to his own mouth. Your pupils blow wide, heat forming in your stomach as he sucks off the rice with disregard for how this might look to anyone besides a father.

Your eyes flicker to Eri, who’s too busy fighting off sleep with the handle of her silver spoon, her tiny head jerking and bobbing every so often, to notice the display.

“I guess—- guess it’s time for bed!” Your voice cracks embarrassingly loud as you stand, quick to stop in your tracks when Aizawa follows suit.

“I got it.”

Aizawa, you’ve learned, says that quite a lot. Despite his generous hourly pay and your obligation to take care of his child, he insists it’s best if he cleans after her. Too intimidated to argue, you simply nod, falling back onto his couch as he ventures back for forth— upstairs and back.

Each time he returns, he notices the droop in your eyes, the way they slowly fall with each step he takes. It’s late, he should be escorting you home, but he doesn’t want to disturb your well-earned sleep session.

As he sits to finally take a break, letting his joins snap and pop, you fall face-first into his shoulder, smashing your cheek against the firm skin.

Your lips pucker, pouty and almost fish-like. Your boyish face, soft and not yet worn down by the tiresome nature of time in itself, looks undeniably cute. Perfect for kissing and irrevocably inviting. Your eyes are shut, lashes resting against your cheeks. Time stops, minutes passing within hours, as Shouta takes in your essence and stares down at your innocent face. Stealing a kiss would just be… so…easy…

“Fix your face,” He says instead, clearing his throat and directing his gaze to the dimly lit, yellow-tinted lamp resting on the end table placed by his half of the sofa. “Or it’ll get stuck like that.”

“M’sorry.” You whisper, bashful as ever despite the slippery hands of sleep reaching back for you. Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?

It makes Aizawa want to retract his statement, press his thumb into the unobtrusive crease forming between your pretty eyebrows. But it leaves before it has time to arrive— to settle, as your body relaxes once more. He observes for a moment, the dip of the couch as you finally sink your weight into it, the debt collectors contracted with sleep finally having caught up with you.

Preserving himself through all these years, none being particularly good to him, he wonders if you’ve faced any similar endeavors. He’d hate to leave you alone, cold and barren as another side of his bed remains despicably untouched, only the ghost of what could have been keeping him company during this sleep-centric night. Your breaths are slow and steady, lips briefly parting to mumble something he can’t quite grasp. Shouta tries anyway, tucking his stubbly chin against his collarbone as he leans forward.

His face is dangerously close, a mere inch separating the gap between his lips and soft, supple skin. With your head nuzzled against his shoulder—broad and wide—your words dispel into the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Alongside a fine layer of drool, something he's all too used to, that slowly spreads the deeper you fall into undisturbed sleep. A heavy sleeper then, he presumes.

Shouta keeps you close, pressing your body against his as he loops his other arm behind your legs and hoists you up. He’s careful to avoid any furniture, holding you with an iron grip as he steps up the creaky stairs. His hair bounces with each step, curly and dark, flowing down his back and streaked with gray.

“..Zawa…” Nearly dropping you, his mismatched gaze locks onto your face. Blissed out and camouflaged with slumber, you stir in his arms. “Kiss me ‘lready.”

Aizawa clears his throat, neck constricting as it tightens around the air. It’s fine, just a baseless comment, he decides, as he slowly opens his bedroom door, careful of the noise. You don’t seem to move after that, dozing in his arms until he’s setting you down into his bed. He really hopes you don’t mind it— he doesn’t have a guest bedroom, after all.

It’s dark in his room, blackout curtains covering any sliver of radiance from outside streetlights. So he flicks on the lamp on his bedside table, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest as he lifts his arms overhead to remove his shirt. Something cold prods at his back, and before he can shed the clothing, Shouta redirects himself to look back at you.

Half asleep, your foot creeps under the comfortable fabric of his shirt. You must’ve discarded your socks in your sleep, because you’re rubbing your eyes with balled up fists as if you’d just woken up. Doesn’t stop you from speaking, vocal cords strained, “S’this the part where we cuddle?”

Aizawa watches you shimmy out of your pants, obviously groggy and irrational from having just opened your eyes, your warm skin slowly being exposed inch by inch. You must overheat in your sleep.

“No, it’s not,” He groans out, sucking in a sharp intake of air as he takes in the mural being painted in front of him. “Go back to sleep, kid.”

“Don’ wanna,” You mumble, much more awake as your eyes hone in on the skin of his back that he’s partially exposing. “And I’m not a kid.”

“Sound like one.” You hear him grovel under his breath, almost as if you were meant to hear it. Aizawa has quite the ability to be silent when he wants to, he can creep up on you without you ever noticing. So you suck your teeth, sitting up in his bed.

He expects you to respond with something witty, something he has to pretend he doesn’t find funny. But you don’t, instead staying uncharacteristically silent. Had it not been the dip in his mattress, he would have assumed you dissolved into thin air.

God, how you hope he won’t find you childish for this.

“Sir, I,” Shouta stiffens, his hair falling from behind his ear as he turns to fully face you. “Can I kiss you?”

“Can you..” He trails off, watching your bottom lip jut out. Plump and shiny, Aizawa resists the urge to sink his teeth into it. How soft would they feel? Would you cry into his mouth if he bit too hard? Anything in his hands becomes fragile, and he wants to know how far you can bend before you break. “Can you kiss me?”

He doesn’t give you time to respond, grabbing your ankle with his rough hands to drag you down into him. Your pretty eyes widen, large and unsuspecting as he crashes his lips against yours, feverish and desperate.

His tongue swipes over your lower lip and eagerly awaits yours, tasting faintly of cigarette smoke and cinnamon. Undeniably Shouta, you can’t help but whimper into his mouth, tangling your fingers into his disheveled hair. His mouth is warm and wet— almost searing hot, and you can’t help but choke on your own breaths. You sink into the kiss, floaty and dumbstruck by his urgency.

Like a starved man, he pushes you down on your back and tangles his big hands in the waistline of your boxers, tugging the elastic apart until it rips with a ‘snap!’. You’re exposed, legs instinctively closing to shield your half naked body.

“Aht-aht. Sit still,” Aizawa hand quickly latches around the base of your dick, sending shocks of electricity up your smaller (in comparison to his) body. You tug on his wrist, eyes burning with unshed tears as he stares down at you, predatory and famished. “When’s the last time you played with this pretty cock? Did you think of me?”

He doesn’t give you time to speak, instead spitting down onto your cock with a thick, shiny glob of spit. You can’t help but moan, watching it slide down and heat up through his fingers. His hand envelops you entirely, big and warm and squelching as he accentuates his words with particularly sharp pumps.

“Oh, sweetheart,” His voice sounds condescending and feignedly sweet, you swear you could cum just from hearing it. “S’been a while, huh? Yeah? S’why you’re leaking all over my hand?”

You feel yourself nod, quick and enthusiastic as you melt into his palm. Your legs turn into jello, numb against his warm sheets, as your toes curl and your back slowly inches off the mattress. Shouta’s eyes are lidded and heavy, drinking you in and burning you from the inside out. You keen, pulsating in his hand until the warmth is suddenly gone, and you’re blinking away frustrated tears.

“No—!”

“Greedy brat,” Shouta’s quick to shut you up, large hands sinking into the plush skin of your thighs as he spreads your legs open impossibly wide. “Fuck, got a greedy hole on you too.”

Your hole clenches in response, eager to have his attention. You can feel a trail of precum and spit soaking the area, warm and wet, not yet reminiscent of his cum. Soon enough, you hope, he’ll be filling you to the brim and then some. Your hands, somehow forgotten, scramble to unbutton his dress shirt.

Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, you gasp in retaliation to his big hand clutching your jaw with indescribable force and pressure. Trying to leave finger-shaped bruises. Your lips part, tongue pushed free from your squished cheeks as you blink up at him, eyes dancing between one milky-white iris and another, only chocolate brown.

“Go on, say it. Tell Daddy you’re a greedy boy with a greedy little hole,” He’s spitting into your mouth, a thin trail of saliva indirectly connecting his tongue to yours. “You can do it, sugar.”

Oh. Oxygen disconnects from your lungs, dumbly blinking up at him with a garbled moan. You can’t speak if you wanted to, not with his hand around your jaw like this, so you settle for swallowing down his spit with a feeble smile. All you can push out is a mangled ‘Daddy!’ but Aizawa seems to take that for an answer, groaning as he hikes your knees up to your chest, sighing when you squeal in response.

His big, warm body is pressed up against yours, much bigger and stronger, and it’s apparent in every movement he makes. He’s able to push you around, flip you over and push you down with barely a finger, and you’re sure his hand can cover the entirety of your face. You moan, wanton and sweet in his ears as he maneuvers your arms to keep your legs up.

“Gonna take real good care of you,” Shouta— Daddy sighs, hunched over and breathing dangerously close to your entrance. Almost like he’s talking to your hole instead of you, and you’d protest if it weren’t for the hot, wet stripe he’d just licked down from your perineum to your hole. Your body feels warm and tingly, legs twitching as his tongue prods and pokes deeper and deeper, slowly slipping inside. “Gonna let Daddy take care of you?”

He’s sure to make it messy, adding generous amounts of drool and spit along your sensitive hole, eating you out like he gets paid to do it. He makes you lay there and take it, holding your legs open like some cheap whore, settling between your thighs with feverish and hungry kisses. Making out with your hole, you watch with heavy eyes and a gaped mouth.

“Yeah, yeah..” You moan subconsciously, a constant stream leaving your pretty, parted lips. He takes the opportunity to fill your mouth with his fingers, long and scarred as his fingertips run along your pink tongue. His fingers taste vaguely of salt, and you can’t help but suck on them, eyes fluttering in content.

You barely catch it, a small kiss being placed on the curve of your jaw until he’s freeing his fingers from your mouth. He resists the urge to shove them down your throat, watch your eyes get glassy and wet as you gag on his fingers like you would his cock.

“Gotta get this cunt nice n’ ready. Watch me eat you out, boy,” His voice has dropped several octaves—if that’s even possible—thick and heavy and reverberating straight into your hole. It’s like he knows you by heart, even if this is your first time together, because he’s slotting his thick, scarred fingers in along with his tongue. “Such a pretty hole. Matches your face.”

Through the haze you’re still able to mumble out a quiet, “Thank you,” timid, small, and broken up between moans.

“Good boy, still remembering your manners,” He sounds just as breathless as you, pressing his fingertips against the special spot inside of you. Your body jolts, a shriek ripping from your throat as he puts pressure on it, bullies it with his fingers, and follows suit with his tongue. Too much. “Shh, I know. Try to stay quiet for me.”

For me. The implication has you whining, high in your throat and pitiful as you nod to no one in particular, wiggling in your boss’s hold. For me. The implication has you whining, high in your throat and pitiful as you nod to no one in particular, wiggling in your boss’s hold.

You want to be good, be the best boy you can be, but you just can’t help it. The complete opposite of what he’s told you to do, high off his fingers as your body clenches and your moans grow louder and louder, fingernails digging into the soft surface of the back of your knees. He just presses and presses and—

Stops. Abrupt and fleeting until his hand is back, but instead in the form of a harsh slap right across the back of your thighs. Your sit spots.

“Wh- mm-mm…! Waitwait..Daddy—!” You’re stunned, stuttering and stumbling over your words as you fail to recollect what just happened. You press your face into your knees, bunched up tight as tears spring in your eyes. “That hu—urts.”

The pout in your voice is evident, and Shouta can’t help but coo. Especially when your cock, lodged right between the thickness of your thighs, jumps and leaks more precum. His own throbs in his pants, leaking into his underwear and leaving him sticky. God, he can’t wait to feel your hole twitch around his dick.

“You’re a big boy. I know you can take it, you said it yourself, didn’t you?” And there it is again, the fog that casts over your brain as you can only think of being good. Good for Shouta. Good for your Daddy.

There’s a sharp smack right on top of your little hole, the entrance winking back in retaliation as you sob into your knees. The pain doesn’t last long, simmers down and is easily replaced by heat when his fingers rub soothing circles around your rim.

“Daddy,” Your voice comes out much sweeter and wet, letting out a small sniffle as you peek out to watch him place open-mouthed kisses against your hole. “Want you.”

“You have me, boy,” His heart melts, and a soft smile creeps up on his handsome face. His tie dangles as he shifts his weight, opening his bedside drawer to pull out a condom and cherry flavored lube. Ironic. “Now let me in, wanna make your pretty fuckhole cream around my cock.”

“Wait,” You rasp, watching him tear open the packaging with his teeth. You’re still breathless and shaky, but you’re trying your best. “Wanna feel you. Wanna feel you inside me.”

Aizawa’s deep groans are music to your ears, and your eyes threaten to roll back into your skull when he frees himself of his shirt and sheds his pants. His dickprint is big and thick, throbbing in the fabric and sticky with fresh precum. You want to taste it. His cock springs free as his briefs drop to the floor, slapping against his abdomen and weeping.

You watch him fuck his fist, pouring the slick lube down his cock and warming it up with his palm.

“Yeah? You want it? Gonna listen to Daddy so he can put his thick cock in that sloppy little hole? C’mere before I shoot into my fist.”

You nod so hard it hurts, squeezing your shaft to stop yourself from cumming to his words alone. Your cock twitches in your hand, hard and wet as Shouta walks forward to meet you at the edge of the bed and scoops you up into his arms like you’re weightless. It must be easy for him, seeing as he’s so much bigger than you in every way.

“Won’t fit—”

“Shh,” Like he knows what you’re going to say before you can utter it, Shouta lifts you into the air with ease, and you can feel his cock pressing against your puckered hole. “We’ll make it fit.”

Your back presses against his chest, upright as he loops his arms around the backs of your knees. You’re spread wide, and with Shouta’s strong grip, all you can do is sit there and take it. You can feel him twitch and throb from the inside-out, his cock gushing pre as you sink down onto his cock. Your eyes roll back, wanton moans and a chant of ‘DaddyDaddyDaddy’ filling the air as snaps his hips, barely letting you adjust.

His dick is stretching you open, thick and long, and pulsing and veiny as you feel it bulge in your tummy, pushing past your rim and filling you up.

“Thought about this for weeks,” Your breath catches in your throat, and suddenly you’re too far gone to answer. “I—yeah, should’ve fucked you in that café.”

From the… Start?

Heat pools on your stomach, his cock punching your insides and kissing each sensitive ridge with every movement he makes. Your moans are unintelligible, barely even coherent, as he fucks into you, lifting you off his cock again, and again, and again. Cock-drunk while his dick rearranges your guts, drool slips from your mouth and down your chest.

You look pathetic and ruined.

“So cute like this, pretty baby. You make the dumbest little faces when you’re fucked stupid on Daddy’s cock, but still so damn cute.”

His cock drags in and out of your plushy walls, precum and lube making a creamy concoction along his shaft with each thrust. Your face is stained with tears and drool, mouth open wide as you pant and whine.

The knot in your stomach tightens, your hole beating around his cock as Aizawa moans, and you feel your body go numb as you shudder and convulse. You’re cumming, and your smaller hands squeeze his big ones as he uses you like a fucktoy, bouncing off his lap with tiny, “Mm, mm, mm’s.” Your hole grips him like a vice, swallowing his cock deeper and deeper until you feel warmth flooding your stomach, your balls tightening by the second.

“Da—addy please, m’cummin’, m’cummin’!”

“There you go, smart little boy,” Shouta groans loud in your ear, twitching in your tummy when you clamp down on his dick. He wants to fuck his cum into you, you deserve it. You deserve his cock, you deserve his load, you deserve to be stuffed full until you’ve milked his dick for all he’s got— all it’s worth. “Just keep bouncin’, so fuckin good at it, gush on my cock. What d’you say, baby? What d’you say to Daddy?”

You wish you could see him, the grit of his teeth as his thrusts turn sloppy and messy. But you know he can see you, staring down at the cum painting your chest as it squirts out your cock in thick, rapid ropes. Mixing with your tears and drool, you know you look like sex on legs, eyes void of everything but the need for cock.

“Thankyouthankyouthank—fu-huck,” His cock is jackhammering so deep you can barely breathe. “Thank you, Daddy!”

“Gonna make you just like Daddy, gonna make you one too,” It must send him over the edge, the sounds of your hole squelching as he scrambles your insides, because he’s quick to shoot a creamy, hot load of cum straight inside you. “Wanna be a big boy so bad? Then—fuuuck— take it like one.”

He gives a few last slow, deep thrusts inside so his cum really takes, carefully freeing your legs as you collapse onto him with a breathy moan.

“‘Zawa…”

“C’mere, brat,” You’re quick to whine, weakly pressing your face into the expanse of his large chest, all tears and snot and cum as he cradles your head between his large hand and his even larger chest. You feel protected in his arms, shrinking even smaller into his lap as your eyes slip closed and his cum leaks down your thighs. “You’re a good boy. My good boy.”

Shouta’s hand is ablaze when he brushes it along your forehead, soon after replacing it with a gentle kiss. He means it.

“Let Daddy take care of you.”

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 21

part 1 | part 20 | ao3

“Right?” Steve asks, scratching his head as he glances back at the door. 

“No, I meant you, dingus! What the fuck was that with you?” 

Steve feels his face go hot. “What? What do you mean?” 

She throws her hands in the air, stomping over so she can get in his face and say, “Don’t ‘what do you mean’ me. Your faces” —she lifts her hands like she’s about to applaud, palms hovering an inch apart— “were like thiiis close to just…”

She claps them together, and Steve feels the blood drain right back out of his face, dread pooling in his gut as she twists her palms this way and that, like two people tilting their heads to kiss deeper. Oh, god. Oh, god. Were they—? 

“Mwah,” Robin says helpfully, mashing her hands more tightly together. “Mwah mwah mwah mwah—”  

Steve grabs her by the wrist. “Dude. Stop.” 

She drops her hands and stares at him — one of those Detective Buckley looks, combing over every inch of his soul for missed clues — and then her mouth does some horribly self-satisfied thing that he hates. “If I didn’t know any better,” she draws, “I’d say someone has a crush.” 

I’d say someone has a crush someone has a crush someone has a crush someone has a

Steve’s gonna pass out. The words feel like bile in his brain, acidic and sharp; like puking right after chugging a glass of orange juice. It’s not like he’s— 

Look, he knows that he’s— but—

The bell dings. Thank fucking Christ. A big family group, three generations of people talking and laughing and fussing over a baby in a stroller and carrying leftovers from the Italian place down the strip. 

Steve sags in relief. 

Robin hisses in his ear, “We are so not done talking about this.”

—

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

About Eddie, about the word Robin lobbed at him like a lit bottle rocket, about any of it.

Just thinking about it is giving him a stomach ulcer and a migraine and maybe an aneurysm, too. 

He was hoping he made that obvious enough during the last hour of their shift that Robin would just drop it, but that girl has never dropped a single thing in her life. Worse than Nancy, the little bloodhound. Steve saw this documentary once about crocodiles; remembers how they can lock their jaws shut after clamping down on their prey with up to 4000 PSI of pressure. 

That’s enough pressure to cut a person’s arm off with a jet of water. 

Damn, nature’s cool.

“Steve!” 

You know who’s not cool? 

“Steve!” Robin hollers again over the song he’s currently blasting to drown her out on the drive home. “Steve, you can’t use ABBA against me like this!”

Steve ignores her protests, responds by shout-singing “DIGGING THE DANCING QUEEN, OOH OOOOOH” at her in his most nasal falsetto because he absolutely can and will use ABBA against her like this, and it works like a charm. He’s pretty sure this song has, like, hypnotic power over her or something, because every time without fail she gives the answering “ooh-oo-oo-ooh-ooh-oooooh” as if on auto-pilot.

“HEY!” she shouts when she realizes what she’s doing. “No sir!” She reaches over and mashes the volume button. 

Silence falls over the car. Sucks the air out of Steve’s lungs in the sudden void; his ears adjust slowly, picking up the quiet thrum of the engine, the whispered whoosh of the wind outside. Is he ever going to get used to being kind-of-sort-of-deaf? This shit sucks.

“...Okay, look,” Robin says tentatively. She’s staring at the side of his head, and he keeps his eyes on the road; tightens his grip on the wheel. “We don’t have to talk about you, okay?”

“There’s nothing to talk about with me.”

“Right!” she rushes to agree. Playing along like they don’t both know that’s bullshit. “Totally.”

Steve risks a glance at her. Her expression is earnest, some full-paragraph silent communication like: whatever bathroom-floor-confessional crisis you’re having, we can leave it alone for now. We can let it stay hidden in the dark corners for a little longer; I promise I’ll put my flashlight down. 

“Totally,” Steve echoes, nodding at her. 

“Okay. Cool. Cool…”

She lets out a long breath, cheeks puffing out as she sits on her hands. Oh, my god, just spit it out. “Can we please talk about him, though?”

—

part 22

tag list pt. 1 below the cut, comment if you want me to tag you tomorrow (heads up i'm not tagging any new under 21 or ageless blogs unless we’re mutuals or you dm me to verify your age. gonna purge this list when i get some free time)

@heartsong18 @hellion-child @hiimlevi @hotluncheddie @jackiemonroe5512 @jaytriesstuff @littlebluejane @lololol-1234 @marklee-blackmore @melonmochi @messrs-weasley @mrsjellymunson @mugloversonly @nburkhardt @nerdyglassescheeseychick @noodle-shenaniganery @notsopersonalcharlie @novelnovella @nuggies4life @pending-dope-username @perseus-notjackson @ppunkpuppyy @questionablequeeries @remosdeerica @runninriot @sadcanadianwinter @shamelesspatrolshepherdcowboy @silver-snaffles @singmeyoursimpsong @slowandsteddie @slutforcoffein @solalasoforth @spookednsaucy @steddieas-shegoes @steddie-island @stevesbipanic @steves-strapcollection @taleah-bonnick @teatimeeverybody @th30ra3k3n @thealwithnoname @thespaceantwhowrites @thestarslittleking @thesuninyaface @trensu @violetsteve @wormdebut @yourmom-isgay @zoeweee @zombiecreatures

[ltwilliammowett]

The anti seasick ship SS Bessemer Saloon Steamship

The SS Bessemer Saloon Steamship- SS Bessemer for short - was an experimental Victorian passenger side wheel steamer designed to counteract seasickness and operated between Dover and Calais. Her inventor was Sir Henry Bessemer.

Bessemer Saloon Steamer, 1874

In 1868, Bessemer, who suffered from severe seasickness, developed the idea of a ship whose passenger cabin - the saloon - was to be suspended on a gimbal and mechanically held horizontally, thus levelling out the swell and sparing the occupants from the ship's movements. Sounded too good to be true, but more on that later. He patented this ingenious idea in December 1869 and after successful trials with a model in which the levelling was carried out by hydraulics controlled by a helmsman observing a spirit level, Bessemer founded a limited company, the Bessemer Saloon Steamboat Company Limited, which was to operate steamships between England and France. Capital of 250,000 pounds was used to finance the construction of a ship, the SS Bessemer, whose chief designer was the naval architect Edward James Reed.

SS Bessemer, by Henry Spernon Tozer 1874

And so she was built by Earle's Shipbuilding in Hull. She bore the shipyard number 197 and was launched on 24 September 1874. As already mentioned, she was a paddle steamer with four buckets (two buckets each on port and starboard, one forward and one aft). She had a length of 106.68 m (350 feet), a width on deck of 12.19 m (40 feet), an outside width over the bucket boxes of 19.81 m (65 feet), a draught of 2.26 m (7 feet 5 inches) and a gross register tonnage of 1974 tonnes. What also characterised her was that she was completely identical fore and aft, she had two bridges and two wheels, which simply made her faster and more manoeuvrable in both directions. Her maximum speed was about 17.4 knots.

The inner saloon was a room 70 feet long (21 metres) and 30 feet wide (9.1 metres), with a ceiling 6.1 metres above the floor, Moroccan-covered seats, partitions and spiral columns of carved oak and gilded panels with hand-painted murals. The press liked to call it the floating clubhouse. However, the swinging saloon was only intended for first class passengers. The second class, on the other hand, did not enjoy this and had to make do with cabins on the sides of the hull.

Harper's Weekly Interior Pages showing the newly building ultra Luxury Bessemer Channel Steam-Ship, 1874

The disaster begins

On 21 October 1874, the Bessemer had her first misfortune. She had just arrived in Hull to be fitted out when she was driven ashore in a storm. She was refloated and found to be undamaged, which was not entirely true, as would later become apparent.

In March 1875, the ship sailed on a private trial voyage from Dover to Calais. During this voyage she is said to have steered well and even had a top speed of 18 knots. Her swinging saloon is also said to have worked excellently. However, things didn't go so smoothly because on arrival in Calais, a paddle wheel was damaged when she crashed into the pier because it didn't react to the rudder at slow speed.

The first and only public voyage took place on 8 May 1875, with the ship sailing with her revolving cabin locked (some observers suggested this was due to the ship's severe instability, but Bessemer attributed this to lack of time to repair the previous damage). The ship was operated by the London, Chatham and Dover Railway. After two attempts to enter the harbour, it again crashed into the Calais pier, this time destroying part of it. Calais billed the company £2800 for the damage.

The Bessemer Saloon-Ship running foul of Calais Pier. Illustrated London News, 1875

Due to the poor performance, investors lost confidence and the company was dissolved in 1876. On 29 December 1876, the Bessemer ran aground on Burcom Sand in the Humber upstream of Grimsby, Lincolnshire, after the removal of the swivelling saloon and other extensive alterations. She was refloated and taken to Hull. The Board of Trade's investigation into the grounding found that the captain was at fault. His certificate was suspended for three months.After removal, the designer Reed had the saloon cabin taken to his home, Hextable House, Swanley, where it was used as a billiard room. When the house was later converted into a women's college, Swanley Horticultural College, the saloon was used as a lecture theatre, but was destroyed by a direct hit when the college was bombed during the Second World War.

The Saloon as a lecutre theatre

The ship was then docked in Dover until it was sold for scrapping in 1879.

The Theory of the Top. Volume IV, by Felix Klein, Arnold Sommerfeld, London, 2010

The Nautical Magazine for 1874

Sir Henry Bessemer, F.R.S.: An Autobiography, 1905

The Gale, The Times. No. 28140. London. 23 October 1874. col E, p. 8.

London, Chatham & Dover Railway Company

[hypotonuseisguud]

i know you've been anxiously waiting (no you haven't)....

FREIGHT GANG HEADCANONS!!

this is honestly gonna be like half funny headcanons and the rest will probably just be me trying to figure out family dynamics and lore so be prepared !

- Momma isn't the biological mother of any of the gang except Rusty. She had adopted Porter and Lumber while they were still trainlets, then she gave birth to Rusty. Once Porter and Lumber were old enough to help themselves more, Momma decided to take in foster children. One of the children she housed was Slick and after hearing about her experiences with the foster care system she adopted her. Slick was around 12 at the time. Then, around 6 months before the events of the musical, Hydra was dropped off at the Troubadour yard and she took him in.

- Currently, Porter is 21, Lumber is 20, Hydra is 19, and Rusty and Slick are 18. This doesn't include their physical ages or manufacturing dates, this is more based on emotional maturity.

- Rusty and Slick are the only two in the family that were born naturally, the rest having been manufactured.

- Porter is the tallest of all of them, not including Momma, the next being Hydra, then Lumber and Rusty, and Slick being the shortest. She is only shorter than Porter by 4 inches or so.

- After the crash with Greaseball and Electra, Slick suffered severe hearing loss and learned British Sign Language. She eventually got hearing aids but still regularly uses BSL. She and Momma taught the boys the basics and they're still learning.

- Rusty has hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and I consider his rust to be eczema.

- Hydra's wheels are inlines!! They were originally quads, but once he and Rusty became racing partners he switched to inlines. The main reason he switched, besides thinking they look cool, it so he could be faster to compensate for the size and weight of his tank. He still has his quad foot attachments for workdays where he needs more stability, but he prefers his inlines.

- Porter has ADHD and has severe mood swings and shifts because of it. #manicadhdgang

- Lumber has a weird amount of talents. He's memorized all of the original Cards Against Humanity cards, he is unnaturally good at every online shooter he plays, he can draw, paint, and sculpt beautifully, and so much more. It's because he also has ADHD and he is just really good at everything he fixates on.

- In the freight shed there are two to a room. Momma has her own room, Rusty and Slick share a room, Porter and Lumber share a room, and Hydra is on the couch but Momma lets him keep his stuff in her room. Rusty had originally volunteered to let Hydra take his bed but Hydra and Slick both expressed their distaste towards that idea. Hydra was scared of her and she didn't like him at first.

- Once Porter and Lumber turned 19 and 18, Porter wanted to move out and get a place together to give Momma and their siblings more space, but Momma convinced them to stay so they could save and get a better shed than they were planning. She just didn't want her boys to leave yet :(

- I like to pretend that the way the freight gang were speaking to Rusty about not being able to race was a lot more sarcastic. They weren't actually trying to discourage him, just more of a picking on him as a way of reverse psychology to let him know that they do believe in him. It obviously didn't work out that way.

- Slick can literally take a nap anywhere

- Cuddle piles regularly occur, especially in the summer and winter. Rusty and Momma are their personal space heaters and Hydra is their cooling pack.

[enjoythesilentworld]

Simon's Month - Red Light

day 21 @youngroyals-events <333

A tense car ride home.

read below or on ao3 (T, 1.2k) (the good kind of tentsion)

Simon is in trouble. He can tell by the way Wille had looked at him before dragging him out the front door of the banquet. He can tell by the way Wille’s currently gripping the steering wheel, glaring at the road ahead. 

It hadn’t meant to go so far. Simon just got a little carried away. It wasn’t fair that right when Wille got home from a work trip, they’d had to turn around and head straight to an event. Though Wille had stepped down, and thus ousted all of those awful duties elsewhere, technically the royal family was still his family. So, occasionally he and Simon, who was now also officially part of Wille’s family, had to attend royal events. 

Wille pulls onto the main road, and they immediately hit a red light. He slows the car to a stop, but doesn’t look over at Simon, instead keeps his gaze locked straight ahead, teeth clenched. 

Simon had completely forgotten about the banquet in the first place. Too excited to have his husband home after a long seven days without him, Simon had draped himself, half dressed, across their bed, awaiting his dear Wille’s return from the airport. Wille had groaned at the sight of him, swearing under his breath, then forced out, “We’ve got that gala tonight, baby. We need to leave in, like, 10 minutes,” which was incredibly rude, in Simon’s opinion. He had, then, thoroughly complimented Simon, promising that the second they got home, they wouldn’t leave their bed for a week. 

The light turns green, and Wille picks up speed quickly, pushing Simon back into his seat. One more street, and the next stop light turns yellow, then red, right before there’s enough time to safely make it through. Wille’s jaw clicks, and Simon fidgets in his seat.

He knew Wille would keep good on his promise. Except, well, Simon hadn’t wanted to wait that long. Wille looked incredibly dashing in his suit, tailored to perfection — an old princely preference he couldn’t drop —, all relaxed and confident. Wille had always done rather well in crowds, at least in the few times Simon saw him acting as Crown Prince. He was only sixteen or seventeen at the time, but the way with which he handled a crowd was impressive. Now, though, nearly a decade older and so much more comfortable in his own skin, shoulders having broadened out and loosened, no longer carrying the weight of the crown but still strong enough to throw Simon over his shoulder… It was all a deadly storm for Simon, only amplified by the fact that it’d been so long since he had his hand on him for real. 

Wille presses on the gas again, a bit slower this time. Hesitantly, Simon lifts a hand and places it on Wille’s thigh. One stern look from Wille has him pulling it back, then pitching forward as Wille slams on the breaks. They’ve hit another red light. Simon bites back a smile as Wille curses under his breath. 

He hadn’t been able to keep his hands to himself earlier tonight, no matter how many looks or mumbled warnings Wille gave him. It was just too tempting to slip a hand under Wille’s jacket, dipping a thumb under the tight band of his belt. Or to hug him from the front, slipping a finger through the gaps between the buttons of his pressed shirt, skimming a finger over his navel. Wille could blame his flush on the one tumbler of whiskey, but Simon couldn’t blame his handsiness on anything but his love for and obsession with his husband. 

At the fourth red light, Wille lets out an exasperated breath. Simon places his hand back on his thigh, this time an inch higher. 

“Hands to yourself, please,” Wille says calmly, glancing down at his lap. 

“But—”

“Hands,” he says, less calmly, silencing Simon, “to yourself. Please.” 

Simon removes his hand, knitting them in his own lap instead. 

In the large ballroom, oscillating between stuffy conversations, Simon had gotten increasingly bored and increasingly bold. When no one was looking at them, focused instead on whoever else was talking, Simon would take the opportunity to touch Wille or to whisper something to him. It was mostly innocent at first. A tap on the shoulder to get Wille to bend down. A mumbled, “You look really good in that color.” A light blush and bashful smile. Over the course of the evening, Wille’s shoulders had slowly drawn up towards his ears.

Now, in the car, Wille looks even more tense, nostrils flaring as they hit another red light. Through his teeth, almost too quiet to be heard, he grits out, “You have got to be kidding me.”

Those few times Simon had presumably gone too far, Wille handled him with such outward grace that no one would’ve been the wiser. But, Simon saw it, heard it. The twitch in Wille’s eye when Simon used him pointer finger to stir his drink, then messily licked up the sticky soda. The slight hitch of his breath when Simon whispered, “Guess what I did in the shower before you got home?” Despite giving it up, Wille had the crown in his blood, and he knew how to maintain that mask of polite nonchalance.

Now, there’s no need for that mask. Now, he’s all sharp lines, deeply furrowed brow illuminated in the red glow. Simon’s always admired Wille’s profile. It seems almost fake in this light, too perfect. The gentle slope of the bridge of his nose, the peak of his cupid’s bow. His sharp jaw, still clenched, his pretty neck, still constricted by his tie, though the top button of his shirt was undone.

“Let me just,” Simon starts, reaching out with the intent to loosen the tie. Wille catches his wrist, two inches away from Wille’s neck. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, though they’re still not moving. His face shifts and suddenly he looks entirely too calm.

“I promised you,” Wille says quietly, calmly, still holding onto Simon’s wrist. “I said, wait until we get home. I said, be patient for me.”

Simon swallows, eyes locked on Wille. “You did.”

The light turns green and Wille presses the gas, though he keeps his hold on Simon, only lowering his hand slightly so it hovers right over Wille’s lap.

That was the final stoplight. Wille turns them onto their street and nods, seriously, like he’s considering what Simon’s just said, then clicks his tongue.

“I have half a mind to make you wait even longer, now.”

Simon tries to move his hand down, but meets firm resistance, and begs, “Wille, please—”

The car shifting into park cuts Simon off. Only then does Wille look over at Simon, wrist still caught in his grip.

“You’re going to go upstairs,” Wille says slowly, “and you’re going to wait on the bed for me. Yes?”

Simon smothers his grin and nods, hoping he looks more desperate than excited. Which, he probably does, because he is desperate as all fuck, but he also knows Wille won’t last long, no matter all this big talk.

Wille releases him, saying “Go on,” with a thrust of his chin, and Simon is scrambling out of the car, stripping off his jacket as he goes.

He sprints up the walkway and barely makes it through the front door before Wille barrels in after him.

[future-dregs]

Spnkinktober Day 21 - Knives

Written for @spnkinkevents

I'm very late to it, but I wanted to finish out my chosen prompts.

Wincest ♡ Blood ♡ Role-play ♡ Sam's serial killer kink ♡ Bottom Sam ♡ Word Count: 3,683

Good Golly, Miss Molly!

The sign reads Jolly Molly's B & B.

Very cute.

Saccharin, even, were it not for the knife gouging it's way through the ampersand, painted blood flecking the lace trimmed blue letters.

Dean can feel Sam's eyes on him before they've even passed it.

"No."

"Dean-"

"No, Sam. I do not want spend my night in some nutjob's idea of a theme joint, drowning in quilts, and having to listen to some sadsack creep around at "the witching hour" to try and convince me, that the place is haunted. No thanks!"

"But it won't be like that!"

"Oh yeah? And how do you know, huh? Cause every time we stop at one a these, that's what happens."

Sam hand inches over and tugs on the steering wheel. "Its this next exit."

Dean smacks him. "Don't touch my Baby's wheel while I'm driving. That's gross."

Sam shrugs and pulls out his phone, nonplussed. "It's coming up, don't miss it."

"I know how to drive, Sam!"

"Just saying."

"Well. It's insulting."

Sam doesn't respond, and Dean glances over. He's got his wallet open and is flicking through I.Ds, thumb hovering over his screen.

" Now what are you doing?"

"Booking us a room."

He looks up. "They only go up to one king per room, no double queens. Do you want your own, or are you going to be my boyfriend this time?"

Sam likes doing that, now that they were getting older. Going someplace where nobody knew them and loving up on Dean in public. Calling him pet names and kissing him whenever he felt like doing it. Walking around with his chin on his shoulder and his hand in his pocket.

There was always a rush to sneaking around, flirting with the taboo nature of it all, trying to keep their voices down and their hands to themselves just enough that they didn't get run off, and they were so used to that, having to be that way , but being a visible couple was nice, too.

Plus you usually can get some complimentary booze or dessert if you play it up enough.

"Do they have any anniversary specials?"

---

Dusk is settling heavy when they pull in. The Impala grumbling pleasantly to herself as they crunch to a stop in the gravel parking lot.

The place isn't anything like Dean had been expecting. It's not like the usual true crime tourist trap at all.

Instead of a grandmother's two story with lace curtains and flower boxes, it's a long, low, log building with small windows and heavy doors.

It doesn't look suspicious, unless you know the history.

Or if you have experience with these types of things.

"Huh." Dean says. "I thought it'd be more-" he waves his hand around. "-kitsch."

"Right?! They did a great job preserving it. This is the actual place where Moll Johnston 'Jolly Molly'" and here Sam actually huffs a little laugh, mouth quirking up. "This is where she found and kept her victims. The whole place is her kill room!"

"Well when you put it like that, who wouldn't want to sleep here?"

Sam is either ignoring him or just not listening.

"I wonder if they let you go down to the cellar? It didn't say on the website."

"You gonna ask?"

"Damn right I'm gonna ask. That's where all the good stuff happened."

"Good stuff? Sam. She murdered people."

Sam just shrugs Dean's statement off, a little grin tugging happily at his mouth, making his cheeks dimple and Dean forgets everything he was saying.

He darts in for a kiss but Sam is already exiting the car and he just gets a sideswipe of shoulder and the seam of his shirt, making Sam laugh out loud, bright and genuine.

"Down, boy. Wait until we get to our room at least."

Dean has to trot to catch up. "And have you getting all distracted and forgetting about me? No thanks."

"Well." Sam says. "I guess you'll just have to find a way to, ah, refocus my attention."

And he heads in, leaving Dean to plot. There will be some sort of retaliation coming, the only question is if it will be fun, or if Dean will choose to be annoying about it.

Either way, he's got plenty to occupy himself with until then.

Sam checks them in, trying to play it cool and work his way up to the big question as he asks about checkout times and amenities, but the desk clerk has obviously been through this many times before, and they state flat out that there are certain doors that are locked, and should remain locked and are not available to guests.

"Seems strange." Dean pips up, bland but challenging. "Woulda thought there'd be at least one place here that'd for sure be your big ticket item. How come you're not showin' that off?"

"Theft. Sir. And other, unsavory practices. So if you would kindly stay to your guest designated areas-"

"Sure thing." Dean snaps up the key and hooks his first two fingers in Sam's front pocket, tugging him along.

"You've got to get me in there." Sam hisses, as they walk up the stairs to their room.

"Alright, y'little gorehound, alright. Quit whinin'."

Sam makes a face at that, disapproving of the term, but he accepts it, and is mollified.

The room isnt as bad as Dean had feared.

There are quilts, and the windows are hung with dusty lace. But, on the whole, it's much more reserved than the typical standard for places like this.

However-

"The fuck is this, Sam?"

Dean's plucking distastefully at a dark knitted swathe draped over a wooden dressmaker's model.

It's set in the middle of the room, dominating the space, and its definitely...

Something.

"Ooh okay! THAT was her kill shawl, she wore it to keep the blood off her clothes. In case she was interrupted by a new guest. It's just a replica though." He says, twisting the fibers between his fingers. "This is new material."

He sounds disappointed. "There's probably one in every room."

"Well its not like they're going to put the genuine article out where just anybody can mess with it. Some yahoo would've stolen it by now, you heard what the guy said."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Hey? Sammy?"

Dean comes up behind him, hands under his shirt, slipping over his belly and hips, following the triangular slant of muscle down past his briefs. His mouth is hot against the cloth, biting at the flat between his shoulders.

"Y'wanna get distracted?"

Sam turns in his arms. "You just can't wait, can you?"

"Nuh uh. I did. We're in our room."

He can get at Sam's neck now, licking out the hollow of his throat.

"And dont act like you're not just as bad."

Sam whimpers and crushes Dean's mouth against his throat, hand on the back of his skull. Dean shoves them back toward the bed, and as they fall, Sam twists so that Dean is under him, grinding their hips together and sucking on his mouth.

He stretches Dean's arms above him, taking one and placing his hand on the back of his neck, wanting Dean to grip him, grab him, take the hint and pull his hair. He keeps it long for a reason after all, and what he likes during sex is not disconnected from that.

When he does, Sam arches into him, fingers clawing at the fabric between them, trying to get them down to skin.

Dean's eyes are blown wide and dark, his lips the red and white of a crushed strawberry, bleeding at the edges. His voice a low rumble that makes Sam's toes curl.

"Now who can't wait? Go get yourself cleaned up and ready. I'm gonna grab a few things from the car."

"Aw but Dean-"

Sam's half gone already. Nobody can get to him as quickly as Dean can, turning him stupid with lust, a mewling wreck of desire. He wants Dean and he wants him immediate and dirty. What's this "cleaned up" nonsense? He smells like the road and they both love it, and he's barely eaten since the last time they had sex. He's ready to go! And Dean's cock in his stomach would say that he's ready too but...

"I know. And you know I just love to stretch you open, knuckle deep, licking you sloppy wet. But this time I want you to do it. I want you aching, waiting for me."

Dean kisses him. Deep and slow. Melting Sam from the inside out.

"Okay?"

Sam looks dazed and starving, diving for another kiss, running out of air, before he answers.

"Okay."

All Dean's talk fades away however, as he grabs Sam's ass and janks him back for another liquid hot kiss when he tries to get up, leaving the tangle of their embrace only to be drug back in before they can finally force themselves to break away.

Sam strips off as he goes and Dean slams to a stop halfway out of the room, eyes eating him up even after Sam closes the door, devouring his after image.

He steps into the shower, having to crouch awkwardly to get his body mostly under the spray. Sam soaps and rinses with no nonsense efficiency, then gets down to the main event of stretching himself open while he still has hot water. You never can tell how long it's going to last in places like these and plus, Sam wants to get fucked. He doesn't have time to waste.

The small bottle of complimentary conditioner is used to the fullest as Sam's long fingers spread his hole, reaching for that place of preperation and pleasure. He stops before he goes too far. He wants to be tight. He wants Dean to have to push and work and fuck him. Dean's gotten soft in his recent age, he's too careful. For Sam's liking, at least.

Sam wants to feel it. He wants to ache for days.

He steps out, dripping wet and half hard, fully expecting to see Dean waiting for him, but the room is empty.

The cloak is gone as well. Probably stuffed in one of the dressers on his way out.

No matter. Sam lays back on the bed and continues to finger himself, lazily twisting around. He'll just give Dean a good show when he comes in, penance for making him wait so long.

But the minutes pass, and he still doesn't show.

Sam's starting to get concerned now, and he quickly dresses, stuffing himself uncomfortably into jeans and pulling his shirt half buttoned over his head while trying to keep his mind from running away with increasingly crazy and violent ideas about what would've kept Dean from him and sex.

He checks the car, and with the front desk, and he's headed back to his room to get his phone, when there's a blur of movement at his right and a cloth band gets dropped over his eyes, pulled tight behind his head. A knife bites a warning into his throat. He freezes.

"Don't move. Be nice."

The hand holding the blindfold tightens in his hair and his brother's cupid lips brush the back of his ear as he asks, "Wanna play?"

All the tension and anxiety that had been growing inside of Sam releases, solidifies into a ball of lust, and drops straight to his groin.

"Please, no. What are you doing? What do mean?"

His voice shakes and he wonders who might see them, if anyone will come to help him, but they're in a curve, a blindspot in the hallway, and there's no one around.

The knife bobs as he swallows. Gulps, really.

But he taps Dean's knee, their signal in games like these. Sam's ready and willing, arching his back and shoving his ass into Dean's crotch.

The knife is removed for a moment, and there's a scratching, plastic sound, then Dean's breath becomes huffy. Muffled.

"Then you better walk, bitch."

Sam tries to glance back, angeling his head in an attempt to see from underneath the blindfold, but the flat of the knife presses into his cheek and jaw. Gently, but resolutely denying him, forcing his face back to the front.

"Did I say you could look back?" The hand in his hair wrenches, and Sam ducks and gasps reflexively. " Walk."

He's directed by the hair down and around and briefly outside, his cock achingly, uncomfortably hard by the time they go down, down, and Sam can feel the cool air chill his skin and the damp closed up must smell of underground fills his nose.

The hands leave his body momentarily, and he hears a lock sliding home.

His wrists are bound and stretched high above his head. The fine point of the knife traces a filigree pattern into the resulting exposed strip of skin.

Blood beads up, jewel-like and beautiful.

The blindfold is removed and he blinks, trying to adjust. The light is dim, but eventually its enough to see.

They've ended up in the off limits celler.

Glancing up shows that his wrists are hanging off of a very old hook, and a thrill shoots through him at the thought that he could possibly be strung up on one of the very hooks Molly had used, sharing the position and predicament of her victims.

There's a gleam in the low light. Dean's knife, hanging loose and easy between his fingers. He stands on his back foot.

Contemplative.

The dangling knife swings up, and Sam turns his head to follow. It nicks a four stroke heart into his cheekbone. Molly's calling card.

Sam's breath quickens. His eyes are wide.

Behind the mask, the voice sounds amused.

"Cute."

Sam knows its Dean, there's no hiding that. But the flat white plastic oval of a mask he's wearing, blank and empty save for two hollows for the eyes, is just distorting enough to be thrilling.

Especially since he's wearing nothing else but the kill shawl and an erection.

The knife trails down his cheek, kissing him cold, before it come to rest on his throat, reversed, with the blunt pressing against his jugular. He can count his pulse in the blade, and he knows Dean can flip it to the razored edge before either of them can blink.

He tries to keep the excitement out his voice, hoping it comes across as tremulous and shaken.

Judging by the way the mask dips down and to the side, Dean biting his lip to stay in character and not laugh, he's not sure he succeeds.

"P-please." Sam says. "Your knife is so big. I'll do anything you want, just dont hurt me."

Dean's other hand comes up, presses his thumb into the mark on Sam's cheek.

"But hurting you is what I want."

He swipes the gathered blood across Sam's lips.

"You look so pretty when you're cut up and bleeding."

"I'll do anything." Sam repeats. Trying to look voluptuous, enticing. Definitely feeling needy. "People say I look so cute on my knees."

He tries to hook a leg out, draw Dean closer to him, but Dean steps back and shoves the blade harder against his throat.

"Don't. That's not how this goes. You don't touch me. I'm going to do things to you, and you're going to do what I say, and ONLY what I say."

He cuts a deeper line into Sam's belly.

"Understand me? Now, undress. Make it look good. Get my cock leaking."

He unhooks Sam's hands. The strap still dangles from a wrist, but he now has motion.

Dean's knife comes up to rest on his collarbone.

"And if you try to call for help or run away? You'll be dead before your guts hit the ground."

He presses and drags, opening a thin seam of blood.

"Get to it."

Sam slowly unbuttons his shirt, gasping at the pull of each one as it comes undone. The sounds are perhaps a little overkill, but theres only so much you can do with a button-up.

He let's it fall halfway down his shoulders, and then shimmies it the rest of the way off.

"I'll need you to move your hand if I'm supposed to get the undershirt off."

The knife moves to the inner of his thigh and presses in there, riding the seam, tip pointed straight into the heat of his crotch.

Sam shudders. And he bucks up involuntarily against it.

It's a mistake and he knows it, but he couldn't control it. His hips were moving before he could think.

Dean grabs him by the hair and twists, viciously.

"What did I say? What did I just fuckin say? Huh? HUH?!"

"Ah, ahhh. Only-only do what you say."

Dean shoves him back.

"You don't listen. And bitches who dont listen get fucked up. That's why you did it-" he grabs Sam by the top of his hair and wrenches him down. "-isnt it?"

Sam's wrists are bound again. Behind him. Tighter. Dean takes that knife again and cuts all his clothes off. He makes no effort to temper his strokes, and Sam's covered in blood and shallow wounds by the time he's done.

He very nearly comes because of it.

Dean swaps the hunting knife for a small, fixed blade vein opener that he'd had waiting.

He taps Sam's mouth with his knuckle.

"Open."

Sam complies, mouth pink and pretty. His breath panting and hot.

Dean drags his thumb down the middle of Sam's tongue, over the points of his molars. The salt and dime taste of him floods Sam's senses.

"Gorgeous. Now-" he places the flat of the blade on Sam's tongue. "-you hold that real still, cause it'll cut that sugar mouth of yours all up if you're not careful."

Gingerly, Sam closes his mouth, tongue working delicately to keep the razored edge balanced. He doesn't dare swallow, a sure way to turn his gums and tongue to ribbons, so the saliva fills and spills over, drooling down his chin and off the knife's short handle.

Carefully, Dean grasps the handle. Pushing and pulling he mimes fucking Sam's mouth the blade, getting lost in the slide of it between his lips.

Blood joins the lines of saliva swinging between them.

Dean gets down to Sam's level, and the knife passes through his lips one last time before Dean wipes off on his hair and sets it aside.

"Give me lips." He taps the low center of the mask. "Kiss me."

Sam licks his own lips, painting them in his blood. He leans forward and presses a perfect, half open print against Dean's mouth. Or at least its mask's approximation.

He pulls slowly away.

"Should I kiss anything else?"

He's on his face in an instant, the distinct click of a lube cap being flicked open sounds behind him.

Dean covers his cock, and without any further preamble, shoves himself into Sam.

Hunting knife in hand he grabs Sam's hips and shoves him forward and back, opting to use his body like a cocksleeve.

Sam loves it.

The handle and fingergrips of the knife grind into the bone of his hip. There'll be a bruise there later and he can't wait to see it, surrounded by the crescent bites of Dean's blunt nail.

Dean's breath is going ragged behind the mask and Sam starts to talk. Incendiary words getting punched out of him, goading Dean faster and rougher.

Begging to be fucked, and used and torn apart.

Calling Dean his own, and a monster he wants to be cut up eaten by.

Telling him to use him like the whore they both know he is for his brother.

Dean comes, slashing hard across the side of Sam's right thigh. Blood spatters the floor, streaks free flowing rivulets down his leg. He'll probably need a stitch or two to comfortably close it up, but it's not deep enough to cause any true damage or need immediate attention.

He'll clot eventually.

Dean shoves the long handle of the knife into Sam's hole, cum dripping out around it, streaking his balls as he thrusts.

"I want you to cum on it, Sammy. Shove your ass back and ride it."

Sam does.

Or, does his best.

It's awkward.

Rising up on his knees he tries to thrust but its shallow and difficult. He can't brace himself properly or get any sort of a rhythm going.

Until Dean slaps a hand, dripping red from where he'd been milking the blood from Sam's thigh, across his chest and shoves, trapping Sam between the two pressures.

Sam whimpers, and crashes back, the hilt of the knife finally able to give him that satisfying scrape he needs, to send him careening, whited out, over the edge.

His cum streaks the floor, his chest and belly, the underside of Dean's forearm. Dean snatches the knife out of him and slices a shallow gash across the small of his back. The flash of pain twines perfectly with the pleasure winding up his spine and his body shocks it's way through another partial orgasm, wrenching every last bit out of him, bleeding his dick dry.

Dean janks the knot out of the cord, and Sam sags against him, hips still twitching and humping. He's covered in sweat and blood and cum, his hole gaping and dribbling. He tries to clench, to keep Dean inside of him, but he's worn out and his muscles just won't do it. It serves to only send another heady gush down his legs and to the floor.

Dean drops to his knees and sucks the remainder out, holding Sam up by the thighs as he quakes around him, shuddering against his face.

He stands, and rolls it in his mouth, before Sam opens his like a baby bird.

Begging.

Dean dribbles it in, swaps the rest of it with a kiss, and Sam gulps and sucks on his tongue until it's gone. Fucked out and content and utterly exhausted.

"Y'know you're right?"

Dean says.

"This place didn't turn out to be half bad."

[Ao3 link]

[wrestlezaynia]

21 zowens

"Valentine Surprise."

Send me a ship and a number and I will write a kiss.

21. On a place of insecurity.

A/N: My apologies this took so long. Happy late Birthday, bestie! I have another Valentine's Day fic in the works, so be on the lookout for that! They'll be about 20 in that one. Must be 18+ to read under cut.

Valentine's Day is on Friday this year which means they're able to spend the entire weekend together for some much needed R&R. Kevin spared no expense, reserving the most expensive honeymoon suite, excited to spend Valentine's Day with his soulmate, Sami Zayn.

After dinner the pair head back to their hotel room. Kevin even dressed up for the occasion, but he didn't exactly have a choice in the matter. The last time he tried to wear his tuxedo shirt to a fancy restaurant he was promptly asked to leave. Sami hasn't been able to take his eyes off Kevin all day, he cleans up nicely and looks so handsome in his four-piece suit, eager to be alone with Kevin at last.

Sami enters first with Kevin covering his eyes. "No peeking." He whispers before removing his hands, revealing the room to Sami.

Sami gasps in awe of their surroundings. "Oh Kev, it's beautiful."

Kevin's gaze remains locked on Sami, watching his face light up with that gorgeous smile that leaves Kevin breathless. "Yeah...beautiful." Kevin replies softly, he isn't talking about the room.

Sami can feel Kevin looking at him as he turns to meet his gaze, staring deeply into Kevin's eyes as he leans in close, their lips mere inches apart when there's a knock at the door. "Expecting someone?" Sami asks, a little annoyed they're being so rudely interrupted.

Kevin can hear the annoyance in Sami's tone, making him grin as he opens the door and wheels in a dessert tray. "You provided dinner, I'll provide the dessert." He explains, dipping the tip of a strawberry into a bowl of hot fudge before taking a bite. The warm gooey liquid dripping down Kevin's lips, licking them seductively as he hovers the same strawberry near Sami's mouth to offer him a taste.

Sami swallows hard, watching intently as the chocolate drips down Kevin's lips and into his beard, causing a sticky mess. Maintaining eye contact, Sami takes a bite. Always trying to one-up each other, even in the bedroom, Sami takes it a step further by swirling his tongue sensually around Kevin's finger with a teasing smirk.

All of Kevin's restraint goes out the window as he pulls Sami into a fiery kiss, slipping his tongue into Sami's mouth. The sweet taste of chocolate with a hint of sour from the strawberry igniting his senses.

Sami melts right into the kiss, cradling Kevin's face gently between his hands with a contented sigh. The familiar spark only Kevin's lips provide awakens, sending an electric shock through Sami's body.

He didn't want to stop, but eventually Kevin's forced to break the kiss. Both men breathless as they stare at one another, hunger growing in each other's eyes. Now it's Sami's turn to initiate things, capturing Kevin's lips in a hot steamy kiss as he gradually works his way down Kevin's jaw to his neck, leaving feather soft kisses in his wake.

A whimper emerges from Kevin's throat as Sami proceeds to kiss his neck, the sensation sending shivers up Kevin's spine. "Sami..." his name escaping as a whisper. "Will you marry me?" He asks softly.

Sami halts his actions, his heart skipping a beat as he meets Kevin's gaze. "What did you say?" He asks, waiting with bated breath.

Kevin fully intended on proposing to Sami after their make out session, but in the heat of the moment let it slip. Kevin can feel the butterflies in his stomach as they lock eyes, Sami always did have that effect on him. "I said...will you carry me? I've been on my feet all day." He fibs, regretting lying to Sami but is left with no other option.

Sami knows what he heard, but rather than question Kevin, he obeys, scooping him up into his arms and carrying him to the bed. Once Sami gently places Kevin down, their lips connect, soft and sweet.

Temperatures rise as they proceed to undress, eyes glued to one another like horny teenagers. Speaking of "horny teenagers." "Do you remember the first Valentine's Day we spent together?" Sami asks softly, reminiscing back to that fateful night. "I was so nervous, but you were patient and kind, a side of you I never saw before." Sami adds with a smile. "That's when I knew I was falling in love with you."

Kevin remembers the night well. Sami used to be so awkward and shy when it came to sex. "You came in your pants." Kevin replies, smiling as the room erupts into laughter. "You had no clue what you were doing, but I taught you everything I know." He adds smugly.

"You were such a good teacher, Kev." Sami murmurs, his voice low and husky. "You taught me where to touch, where to kiss..." He doesn't finish his sentence, leaning in to kiss Kevin's neck before descending lower down Kevin's semi nude body, kissing over every inch of exposed skin. Sami dips his finger into the chocolate to spread it across Kevin's chest and stomach as he slowly licks it off.

"Sami." Kevin breathes, arching his back into the mattress as he tangles his fingers in Sami's soft ginger curls, giving them a firm tug.

"Tu es si beau, Kev." Sami whispers against his tummy, nipping lightly at his navel. "I've always thought so, since the day we met."

A soft moan of pleasure spills from Kevin's lips as Sami nips on the sensitive area around his stomach, a place he often felt self-conscious about, but Sami always made him feel beautiful in his own skin. "I thought you were loud and obnoxious." He admits, granting yet another giggle from Sami. God Kevin adores his laugh. It's the most angelic sound in the world aside from Sami's moans and he did it a lot their first time. "But as the years passed and I got to know you better, I realized I couldn't live without you." He adds, breathless, reaching for his suit jacket that lay beside him, pulling out a ring. "Sami, will you marry me?" He asks, butterflies emerging once more.

Sami observes Kevin's movements, his heart beating fast. As soon as Kevin reveals the ring his breath hitches, tears pricking at his eyes. "Oh my God Kevin, yes!" He exclaims joyfully, kissing him tenderly. They remained in bed the remainder of the weekend, making wedding plans, excited for what the future holds.

Tagging: @loki69zowens, @wrestlingdespairings, @unintentionaloracle, @who-do-you-want-to-be, @littleppl444, @himbos-hotline, @expert-texpert, @wrestlingprincess80, @instantreplaytime, @crxssjae, @sami-uso, @jeysbvck, @surdelcielo, @thesamoanqueen, @fantasyismyonlyrealescape, @caktusjuice-draws and @eleanor24. Thank you for reading, as always! 😊💖

[steveinscarlet]

Another vintage Kerrang article for your delectation. This one is loooong. Text below the cut...

THEY'RE ALL concerned and they all want answers. Mötley Crüe drummer Tommy Lee, hauling ass down Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles, in a sparkling silver Corvette, certainly does. So does Blackfoot mainspring Ricky Medlocke, a recent unexpected apparition within the Marquee's glistening vaults. So does just about everyone I've met in the course of recent field-trips. They're all wearing that 'there but for the grace of God' look and they all want to know. So do I...

"Every time you speak to Rick on the phone you come away with a big grin on your face because he's in such good spirits. He's handling it better than I thought he would. He's matured 10 years overnight. He's totally accepted the fact that he's only got one arm and he's being very realistic about coming back into Def Leppard. He's mad to go for it, though, and we're mad to let him try."

That drummer Rick Allen will try, however, isn't in doubt. He's adamant about it and Leppard vocalist Joe Elliott is equally adamant that the band will give him their unrestrained support. As they've said all along, the decision is totally his "We aren't trying to show off or get sympathy," spells out Joe, "it's just the way we are. Def Leppard is simply five lads - we could have been a football team, we could have been international bank robbers. Rick's a mate, and just because he's had an accident doesn't mean he can't still be in the band. If he physically can't do it then obviously there's going to be problems, but with the technology available today I don't see why he can't play snare drum with his left foot, say. And if he can do that, and maybe have tom tom fills already recorded on a trigger, then the kit would look exactly the same. "Bill Ludwig, who builds Rick's kits, actually got in touch with him as soon as it happened, and it seems that there's a lot of one-arm drummers, guys who came back from Vietnam, y'know. The thing is, they tend to play Holiday Inns and places that like that; it's a different approach to drumming. Rick has a very John Bonhamish style - I mean, the quy doesn't need monitors, he's ridiculously loud! - and he'd never be able to do with one hand what he did with two for an hour and three quarters. It would kill him! So he's gonna need the technology. It's just down to whether he can accept the fact that there are gonna be people in the crowd trying to peer through the cymbals to see a plastic arm. He'll have to wear a shirt now, whereas before he'd always go bare-topped..."

THE DETAILS of the car crash that removed 21- year-old Rick (temporarily at least) from the Leppard ranks have been pretty well documented, grabbing column inches in the Nationals and beyond. The bare facts seem plain enough: at 12.50pm on New Year's Eve, while driving his Corvette along the A57 from Sheffield to his parents home in Dronfield (Derbyshire), Rick was involved in an incident which sent his car spinning out of control, turning over several times, injuring his female passenger and removing his left arm in the process. He remembers what happened vividly, and really can count himself fortunate to be alive. When the debris from the accident was examined it was found that the top half of the steering wheel had been bent back, Rick's particular power clearly preventing the steering column and dashboard from crushing against his chest. But why did it happen?

Picking through the events with Elliott it soon becomes obvious that the whole story is a little more complex than yer typical life-in-the-fast-lane pile up. Think about it...

When you're young and successful, with a streamlined US car and a female companion to match, it can sometimes sting the nasal membrane of the folks you've abandoned to a dole queue existence in your humdrum hometown rut. People have been known to glow green with jealousy, and on New Year's Eve people have been known to take a drink. Sometimes even a life...

"Yeah," says Joe quietly. "There was another car involved in the accident."

Mucking Rick around, you mean?

"That's right. But the people have denied it and there's nothing we can do. The coppers have interviewed them but it's no good I'd love to go round and kill 'em!"

Joe takes a moment to collect his thoughts, then continues... "The arm was placed in a bucket of ice gathered from all the houses nearby and Rick was in hospital (the Royal Hallamshire) within 19 minutes, which is unbelievable. He underwent an 11-hour operation; his arm was back on by ten to one the following morning, but infection set in and after three days they had to take it off.

"His nerves are still alive, though. They've got them wrapped up like spaghetti, and it's possible to have them connected up in a way that can give movement to a prosthetic arm. So the Steve Austin 'Six Million Dollar Man' thing is not beyond the realms of possibility one day. Rick still feels his arm because of the nerves."

When did you hear what had happened?

"I heard at about ten to four the same afternoon and I couldn't believe it. I cried like a baby for about three hours - my face was hurting. Peter (Mensch, manager) rang and said, 'Rick's had an accident, his arm's off, but they've sown it back on'. I've heard of that working before but unfortunately it was torn off, not cut off, so everything snapped and stretched in different places, which made it more difficult."

How soon after the accident did you visit Rick in hospital?

"I saw him two days after it happened... it was the worst experience I've ever had... but he was walking a week earlier than expected and telling the nurses to f**k off after three days because he was fed up having his bandages changed. He sounds in fine form now and wants to get back; drumming's all he's ever done, and he's done it very well."

"It's just up to him if he can stand the strain. I mean, he's going to go through some crap. He's not had it yet, but he's gonna suffer from depression; bad depression. He's being very realistic about it, though. He said to me, 'When it comes, it comes.' He wants to come out here to Holland but he knows he can't."

Presumably he won't be ready to play a part on the forthcoming tour?

"No, and he knows that. Somebody will guest with us until we know the result of Rick's convalescence." Would you consider using two drummers on any subsequent tours?

"Possibly, yeah, and Rick could do specific bits. We've definitely thought about that, but he's got a lot to learn first. I mean, there's certain things that are now a fact of life. If Rick wants to wear baseball boots, for example, he's gonna have to wear Velcro ones. And he's probably gonna need press-stud trousers. He's got to learn to bath himself even..."

"The thing is, at the moment his right arm doesn't work. The ball is smashed so they've had to pin it. He's got a six inch pin as big as a poker in there. Imagine if your elbow was sown to your hip; well that's all the movement he's got. I guess he's a bit of a mess, though mentally he's the best he's ever been."

What would happen if Rick returned to the band yet clearly wasn't cutting it? Would you have to tell him? "No, because he'd know himself. He's said that to me on the phone. He's being realistic- if he can't do it he can't, but he's definitely gonna try. There'll come a time when Rick will say, I'm ready, and we'll get together in a rehearsal room for a month and see what he does. He'll either turn round and go

'Yes!' and we'll go 'Yes!', or else he'll say 'Sorry, I'm not coping with it.'

"The important thing is that he tries, otherwise he'll never know, and that would be awful. I know he'd rather fail than not try at all. Besides, it's no big secret that we use drum machines on the records so, whatever happens, he could still be involved on that side. We would just take a session drummer out on the road."

"At the moment, we're trying not to get too depressed about the whole situation, but we were mega-depressed at first. I was in a real state, like a zombie for five hours, and for quite a time after I just didn't want to get into a car. I know it's daft, but it's true

A BONHAM of the biscuit tins, a Titan of the tupperware, since the age of 11 Rick Allen has thought of little outside of drums and drumming. At the moment he's at home, probably watching Cheech & Chong videos on the new system bought for him by Phonogram Records. But chances are that his thoughts are elsewhere, no doubt wafting with the music around the booths and corridors of Wisseloord Studios near Amsterdam, Holland, where Leppard are recording their fourth, as yet untitled, LP. As always, he's with his colleagues 110 per cent (for now it can be in spirit only), a continued commitment that should spur him on through the tough weeks and numerous hospital visits ahead.

Prior to the accident, he'd laid the groundwork for eight backing tracks, and the remaining two songs on the album were always destined to feature a less human touch, the band specifically wanting a more clinical punch, so there's no problem on that front. As for his work on backing vocals, well, Elliott can easily deputise in that department, leaving Rick free to concentrate on the speediest recovery possible and, as Elliott puts it, "Learn to live again. He's having all these drums built and a special car designed, all sorts of stuff..."

All things considered, '84 certainly wasn't an easy year for Def Leppard, a rude awakening for an almost unbroken streak of good fortune. First longstanding associate 'Mutt' Lange proved unable to produce the new LP, likewise his replacement Jim Steinman (though for different reasons - read on!), and then came The Accident, which instantly eclipsed all previous hassles, reducing apparent mountains of doom and dismay to easily skirted molehills. But, if anything, adversity has caused the four active members of the Leppard clan to virtually graft respective beaks to the grindstone in a collective consummate effort to make their next album their best.

The band's first LP, 'On Through The Night', produced by (Colonel) Tom Allom, took a mere 18 days to record and remains something of an embarrassment in Elliott's eyes (someday he'd like to remix it and touch up a few of the vocal parts), while the second, 'High 'N' Dry', with Lange now at the helm, was laid down in three and a half months, including a month's pre-production, bang, bang, bang, 'Mutt' clearly wanting to capture the excitement generated by these 21-year-old 'let's go for its'. But 'Pyromania' now that was a different story, with band and producer (Lange again) making a conscious decision at the outset to pin back the ears of a generation with something of genuine lasting quality; an attempt to update the glories of Queen's 'Sheer Heart Attack' and 'Night At The Opera' LPs...

They went for it in a big way and 10 months later came up trumps, creating a slice of history that many have doubted they'll be able to top; an album that left the whole of the music industry wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and caused bands both big and small to almost instantly re-assess their directions and aims. A (hard) labour of love still selling around a thousand a week, it broke taboos and set fresh standards right down the line.

"Hopefully, it'll be an Heavy Metal 'Sergeant Pepper...'," says Elliott, "who knows, but we've got to do more. It'd be tragic if our best album was our third and we end up doing 17 LPs."

Whatever the next album sounds like, however, Joe's convinced that it's gonna be slated by the press. He's resigned himself to the fact (not having heard the record beyond a few notes ricocheting out of the studio doors, I really can't comment), but, along with bassist Rick Savage and guitarists Steve Clark/Phil Collen, he's ploughing on regardless, helping to create something different to 'Pyromania' in content yet as good, if not better, overall.

"Since 'Pyromania' we're two years on technically," he explains. "The Fairlights are better, the keyboards are better and the microphones are better. And we're two years more experienced, of course. Actually, we keep putting on 'Pyromania' and listening to it back-to-back with what we've done; you have to imagine it without the mix, but it's definitely up there to my ears."

JOE ELLIOTT leans forward in the chair, tucks a fold of his rather battered dressing gown tight against private parts and pours himself another glass of one cal Coke. This for the moment is home, and has been since the middle of August: a simple hotel room in Holland ten minutes drive from the studio complex. Originally, the band were due to play the 'Mick Wall Festival' in Rio, but they eventually decided against it on grounds of not wanting to interrupt recording. So while certain jammy so-and-so's were sunning themselves on the Copacabana sands (maaaan!!), Elliott and co, tax exiles all, were trudging across frozen lakes, wrapped up tight against temperatures of 25° below! Still, there's always next year And if nothing else, in their present position the four are conveniently cut off from all domestic distractions. Through the hotel room window I can see Dirk, Elliott's treasured Renault 12 (and centrespread star of Kerrang! 79), basking quietly in the hazy sunlight, the central motif on an idyllic pastel canvas shaded only by the distant foghorn fuming of an adrenalised Peter Mensch. Somewhere, behind closed doors, he's informing an unfortunate Halfin that a five-piece outfit close to the latter's wallet have been 'stiffing' horribly in the South, and he doesn't mean Torquay! Let's just say he's on form...

Later, on the flight back to London, having persuaded Mensch to fund my purchase of a duty free Sony Walkman in tasteful pink, I tentatively suggest that the forthcoming Leppard biography should be titled 'Me & My Whine'...

"OH, YEAH, DAAAN-TAY!!" he snaps, blood vessels popping like balloons, "AND HOW LONG DID IT TAKE YOU TO THINK THAT ONE UP???"

Back to business...

"We've always upheld the theory," theorises Joe as things quieten down, "that we don't want to put out a record every nine months. We'd much rather put out a record every two to three years that's of real good quality

"When we started this album 'Mutt' was involved; we did pre-production with him in Dublin, Ireland, which is why we've put him down again on the songwriting credits. It's an honesty thing with us. He doesn't write anything as such; the six of us just sit round a table with a piece of paper in front of us and guitars turned down really low, then whoever chucks in an idea - be it Rick or 'Sav' or me or 'Mutt' - we play with it."

"Steve, for example, will come up with an idea and 'Mutt' will say, 'Change that round', 'Use this', 'Do it in another key', ' or whatever. It just creases me up to think that there are some people out there who look at us and say, 'Ha! They can't write their own songs', which isn't true at all. And even if it was, I'd much rather be involved with an album that sold six million copies co-written with a producer than one that sold 200,000 copies that wasn't."

Surely helping with the arrangements and so on is part of a producer's job, though "Yeah, right, but it's almost as if it's some kind of crime to let your producer be involved. That's what a producer's there for - to kick you up the arse and bring out the best that you can do. We encourage 'Mutt' to be involved and we repay him by sticking his name on the songwriting credits. Who cares! It's only a bloody song anyway..."

Isn't it true, though, that a lot of producers are really just glorified engineers and can't make the extra step up to that level of involvement?

"Yes, that is true, but 'Mutt's an exception anway because the guy's a musician, he's been an engineer since he left school - he's been doing it for 17 years and he's only in his early thirties now and he's also a brilliant singer and great songwriter, so you've got everything going for you! Whereas an engineer will be able to tell you if something's out of tune, 'Mutt' can go further than that and say, 'It doesn't feel right' or 'Sing it this way, shape your mouth like this, let's alter the phrasing'. "With most engineers, if it's in tune and it's what you want then it's a take, and that's all their job is, because if it's that way round it's normally the band who are producing, the way we are with this album. I noticed in Kerrang! it implied that Nigel Green is now producing – he's not, we are. Nigel's assisting." "Actually, he's worked with us on our last two albums, though not as main engineer. Mike Shipley was always our main engineer. Nigel's as good as Mike, it's just that at the time he was involved in other projects; so when Mike took a holiday or went to the dentist Nigel would come in. We've never worked with him on a long term basis before but we do know him."

What happened with 'Mutt' Lange, though? As I understand it, he originally agreed to produce the album as well as help out on pre-production...

"Yeah. In fact, he was still going to do it last February. We started with pre-production, as you've mentioned, but it soon became obvious that 'Mutt' was in no state to see the whole thing through. The Cars' album ('Heartbeat City') nearly killed him; our last album nearly killed him, and the Foreigner record ('IV') the same. I think he's just reached the stage now where to attain certain standards you're talking about grafting for a long time."

"The way we worked on 'Pyromania', for example, we were doing 20 hour days and the guy was sleeping on the couch in the control room. You just can't do that forever, so for the sake of his health he made a wise decision not to do our album. At the time, we were panicking; we thought, 'Oh, Christ!', cos things had all been planned. It wasn't a case of us being afraid of what the album would sound like if 'Mutt' wasn't there, it was simply the availability of other producers that we were concerned about. With top people like Ted Templeman, Mike Stone or Trevor Horn, you've got to book 'em years in advance, you can't just get in touch two weeks before you want to start..."

"Actually, we did approach Templeman just to see how much he wanted, and I don't think he was too keen to do it; he put in such a ridiculous money offer that no band in the world would have accepted it! But then we really wanted somebody a bit different, anyhow. We were interested in the people I've already mentioned initially because we thought, well, these are the names that we've listened to, Bob Ezrin, y'know. But then we started to think about people like Alex Sadkin, who we found was doing the new Foreigner album ('Agent Provocateur'). Trevor Horn would have worked with us in England, but Chris Thomas (Roxy Music, Procol Harum) turned us down flat - he obviously doesn't like us. We actually tried to get Phil Collins, who was interested but tied up with the latest Clapton LP ('Behind The Sun')."

So you were looking at people outside the world of heavy rock...

"Yeah, we were looking at up and coming producers like Terry Manning, who's engineered for ZZ Top, and Steve Lillywhite, who's yet to do a hard rock album but possibly could do a good one. Some of us were interested in him, some of us weren't. I like the fullness of Simple Minds' 'Sparkle In The Rain' LP, it's brill, but sounds are really no problem for us now, we can get good sounds; the thing we always like to have is musical input, and that's where we thought Steinman would come into his own. I mean, the guy's a good songwriter and he's had a hell of a lot of success with what he does."

He worked on the last Billy Squier album, 'Signs Of Life', with Tony Platt, didn't he?

"Yeah, well, he 'navigated' it is what Squier says. We thought, OK, we'll get the sounds and let him do the producing, but it turned out that Jim wasn't really what any of us thought he would be. In fact, I wonder how he's ever got a production credit on anything - especially with Squier, the kind of ego he's got. I can't understand why he even let Steinman's name appear on his album cos we're not putting it on ours."

What was the problem with Steinman then?

"Ahh... I wouldn't be lying if I said that you could have done it as well. I mean that. The guy just sat there reading 'Country Life' all day and going, 'Yeah, yeah, that sounds good', when it plainly wasn't. He's simply not used to recording the way we record. When we said, 'Listen, this is the way we work, you'd better get used to it', he tried and he couldn't. He just could not hear if something was wrong."

Were your standards too exacting for him, do you think?

"Possibly, yeah. It sounds strange to say that, though, cos to me those standards are normal. Doing 'Pyromania' was like going to college; I've grown up listening to things a certain way. As far as I'm concerned, getting the timing, the tuning and the feel spot on is the usual way to work, but Jim Steinman for all his reputation - could not hear it."

"After a while, we just thought, well, this is silly, we're wasting our time and money and wasting his time, though we weren't too bothered about that cos he wasn't too bothered about the project. I honestly don't think he was doing it for any reason other than credibility in the States. "We'd say, 'Right, we start at 12', and he'd wander in at 3.30. We'd stay till 12 or one in the morning, then he'd go back to his hotel and start writing songs for his own future projects, and he'd be up till nine o'clock doing that. So when he finally got round to us, he'd only had five hours sleep. he wasn't there half the time. I mean, he was there in body but not in mind. We found more and more that we were doing the work, which was fine, we didn't mind doing it, we just thought, why the hell should we be giving this guy so many points and so many dollars to sit there reading 'Country Life'!"

So how much did you manage to accomplish with Steinman?

"We did about eight backing tracks and scrapped them; almost everything has been done again. And even the things that went down were our decision Steinman never overruled us on anything. If he said a certain take was good and we said it was bad, we'd do it again."

Who was actually getting the sounds at this stage?

"Us and Neil Dorfsman, Steinman's engineer. He was good, actually, cos he was doing all the work. Jim was the ears of the partnership, but the ears were plugged up, I think..."

"Y'know, it annoys me intensely when a producer walks into a control room and says, "This carpet has got to go!' Sod the desk, that's not important. An SSL desk, 150,000 quid's worth of equipment, and the carpet's got to go! He even had the carpet changed in his hotel room. The guy was living in a suite while we were happy in rooms with a fridge and a cooker. Obviously, we paid for it all..."

"And the food! He went out to the North of Holland and had a 12 course meal! Which is fine, that's his personality, but when somebody walks into a studio and says the carpet has got to go... if I'd been there I'd have decked him. Seriously. Who gives a flying s**t what the carpet looks like!"

How long did Steinman last, then?

"Oh, we dumped Jim about November, we gave him a fair chance. We thought, well, alright, we're doing the spadework, what he might consider the boring side of the album, let's see what he's like on vocals, maybe that's his strongpoint. He did tell us that he spent something like five weeks trying to get Meat Loaf to sing one line, so we thought, OK, the guy's definitely got stamina."

"But when it came to doing vocals with me, it was exactly the same situation as with the backing tracks - everything was my decision. He'd say, 'Yeah, that's good', and I'd go, 'Jim, it's f**king useless!' I'd run out of breath at the end of a line cos I wasn't quite familiar with what I was singing, and he'd say, 'It's got a bit of feel'. Isn't that pathetic?!"

"I mean, Steve and Phil wanted to get rid of him two weeks after he was here. But I just kept saying, 'Give the guy a chance, blah, blah, blah' made meself look a right arsehole. But it was only fair to let him get to the vocal stage of things."

"Anyway, when Steinman went we all sat down and asked Mensch to sort out which other producers were available. We put down everybody we thought might be good. Mike Shipley couldn't do it cos he was off co-producing the new Loverboy album, so we just suggested Nigel. We were doing a better job than Steinman, so we thought, well, what's the point getting in another producer? We send 'Mutt' the odd tape now and then and he sends it back saying, 'It sounds brilliant to me', which shows that we can do it, so we are."

Has having Phil Collen involved from the start of this album (he became a Leppard member during the recording of 'Pyromania', replacing guitarist Pete Willis) made things different in any way?

"Yeah, it means that the songwriting's changed a little; Phil's input is better than Pete's ever was. Steve will always be the major songwriter, I think, but he's really encouraged Phil a lot. He doesn't just sit down and say, 'I want to write all the songs', stuff like that. In fact, everything that Steve's written, he's written with Phil in the same room... Phil's probably involved in eight of the 10 songs on the album."

And what about 'Sav'? He writes too, doesn't he?

"Yeah, but 'Sav's weird; I can't get to grips with him sometimes. More than anyone else in this band he likes your Journeys and your Bryan Adams, occasionally even the odd Duran Duran song, yet he was the one who came up with 'Stagefright' and 'No No No'. And on this new album he's got a number called 'Ring Of Fire' - not a cover of the famous Johnny Cash song! which is an uptempo, thrash, crash, Metal job. He just never writes like the people he listens to."

Will Steve and Phil be sharing the guitar breaks on the new LP?

"Oh yeah, 50/50, right down the middle. Actually, they argue about who's gonna do 'em; not in the sense of, 'I wanna do this', but Phil's telling Steve that he should do a certain solo and Steve's saying, 'No you do it, it's more up your street'. I remember hearing stories about KK (Downing) and Glenn (Tipton) from Priest not talking to each other for four months at a time, but it's the other way round with Steve and Phil. The only thing they argue about is who's gonna buy the drinks!"

What about you, though? You play a bit of guitar...

"Badly!"

...have you written anything on the new record?

"Er... I did come up with some stuff but I don't think it got used. I wrote little bits on the last album, but my main worry is obviously melodies, lyrics and vocals."

"Sometimes, though, we'll have a vocal line and work the backing around that. We've got this one new song, 'Armageddon It', which is Piltdown, just two chords all the way through; it's based around a tongue-in-cheek vocal thing."

Is it a 'Rock Of Ages' type number?

"I suppose it is a bit, yeah. The vocals come out from all over the place once it gets going. It's just a totally stupid lyric... like 'Rock Of Ages', just a piss-take of ourselves, though not mocking the fans in any way."

"And then there's 'Ring Of Fire', which I've already mentioned. It's actually about an Indian meal, the day after, but nobody would ever know that... well, they will now!"

When you're writing lyrics, do you ever think about how the song will work live?

"Not really, no. Obviously, a number like 'Rock Till You Drop' is a stage song, and the same with 'Stagefright', but I've never consciously sat down and thought, well, I'd better come up with two songs about 'Rock This Place To The Ground', or whatever, and one meaningful one about Vietnam, and another about a vigilante in New York. They just turn out that way. You do it in moods. I was probably watching something about Vietnam on TV and 'Die Hard The Hunter' (from the 'Pyromania' LP) came out, and I'd probably been to see 'Deathwish' when I wrote 'Billy's Got A Gun' (also on 'Pyromania'). I can't remember, I just do it."

"I actually wrote 'Photograph' (ditto) while I was sitting on the bog. I was stuck for a chorus and I had a picture of Marilyn Monroe staring me in the face... Bob's your uncle!"

When you made the decision to go for something extra with the 'Pyromania' album, were you confident that you could pull it off?

"We were confident, yeah, very confident, because 'Mutt' was producing. We just had so much faith in the guy and in return he had total confidence in what we were doing. We didn't see how we could go wrong, though Mensch was tearing his hair out when we were nearly a million pounds in debt and the record company were drumming their fingers waiting. I think we had to sell 1.2 million copies of 'Pyromania' to break even, we were in a real big mess..."

"I mean, I nearly had a nervous breakdown, I just couldn't handle it. I was going through so much crap towards the end - do it again, do it again... I got what a lot of singers get, 'Lastitis', which comes from the pressure of finishing. We went through a lot of hell on that record..."

Including, of course, the slightly wobbly exit of young Mr Willis...

"Yeah, but in all honesty I think that did us more good than anything. The thing is, you sometimes take situations for granted and then all of a sudden something like that happens and it's like, wow, it's different, there's only four of us, he's gone, really gone. I mean, Phil joined the day after, but then he almost joined back in '81."

"I tried to get him cos we were having trouble with Willis in America. I rang Phil up and said, 'Can you learn 16 songs in two days?' He said, 'I'll try', but that was just totally out of desperation, there's no way he could have done it. However, when Pete started to act in the studio like he did on tour, which was making Keith Moon look like a bloody vicar, it was time for him to go."

Why doesn't he get some help?

"Well, I think he's beyond help, to tell the truth. He doesn't even realise he needs it, he doesn't accept he's got a problem, though the guy's been in hospital twice as a result of drink and drugs. He had a collapsed liver or something, and epileptic fits, God knows what."

That hasn't happened to the rest of you, though, and you're all the same age, you've all worked your way up together...

"No, it's just him. Pete's always had something to prove, y'see, probably because he's a midget. The guy thought he was 10 feet tall when he was pissed and he'd be taking on people as big as you it didn't work. He was like a gigantic ball and chain around our ankles..."

THE LATEST whisper on Willis is that he's currently swanning around the environs of Sheffield, complete with Rolls Royce and minder, recounting tales of some hush-hush supergroup he might be throwing in his frets with. Elliott finds it hard to take the whole thing seriously, and I think it's fair to say that the recording of album number four is proceeding all the smoother for the wee man's absence.

Already, a number of lead vocals are complete, and the band (employing two studios simultaneously) are steadily piecing together their ten new songs, ready to convince a waiting world that Life After 'Pyromania' does exist.

So what's on the boil? Well, in no particular order, there's 'Armageddon It' and 'Ring Of Fire', already mentioned, 'Excitable', 'Gods Of War', 'Fractured Love', 'Don't Shoot The Shotgun' (Stonesy, I'm assured), 'Animal', 'Love Bites' (a ballad), 'Run Riot' and the enticingly handled 'Women', all proudly produced by the Leppard members themselves, who, without the invaluable 'Mutt' Marten to administer the prods, are taking great and serious pleasure in booting each other up the bum! "Actually, I never envisaged us producing ourselves," admits Joe, "I thought it might be the one thing that would lead to us falling out. It's always been dead important to us that Leppard is a friends situation; we want to keep the element of why we started. Five mates who can still go into the same bar and look each other in the face after seven years. Happily, that's the way it's remained, and producing ourselves is working really well..."

The new album, which now looks set to be mixed by Lange in the UK, an added bonus, should be available by August, after which the band plan to tear up the tarmac on a world tour of, well... y'know. The idea, it seems, is to blow away the studio cobwebs with about eight shows in Ireland, some in smaller places, then steer a course for the UK, perhaps for a September stint (the British dates have already been put back four times!) of 20 or so gigs. A headline appearance at Wembley Arena isn't too far off for the boys, according to Queen's Brian May, a staunch Leppard supporter, but this time around I reckon they'll settle for something a little more cosy.

Next tour, though Europe too seems odds on to cop a visit, particularly as 'Pyromania' has now shifted over 100,000 copies in France and is making a late burst for the tape in Scandinavia as well. Business in Germany, however, remains a little slow, and as for Holland... well, now we're talking about a massive 639 units shifted. Still, at least it means the band don't have to worry about being recognised. Def what?!

By December Leppard should be into America, after which it's likely they'll travel to Japan, though probably not Australia, that stage of the tour having lost them around 60 grand last Feb. Indeed, all in all, their schedule will be less arduous than last time, including more days off to recover and recharge. The band should certainly feel healthier as a result, but then with the Rick Allen episode having shocked the Leppard camp into a highly body-conscious state, that's the way things are heading anyway "I don't want to waste away and vegetate," explains Joe. "I'm 25, I'm supposed to be at the peak of my fitness; I'm supposed to be Glenn Hoddle but I wasn't. I'd run a mile and be out of breath. Now I can run a six minute mile, no trouble, and I do half an hour's worth of exercises every day. 'Sav', Phil and myself all go jogging too - we take less for granted now than we did before..."

[kata-sans]

Raising Stripe

Chapter 21

“CRAIG! THE COFFEE TABLE! HE'S UNDER THE COFFEE TABLE!” Tweek alerted his husband after they had spent 15 minutes searching for their missing baby.

Since becoming mobile, Stripe had kept his parents on high alert. The slightest distraction would give the baby an opportunity to get into trouble. He would get into things he wasn't supposed to and hide out of sight.

In one afternoon, Stripe had escaped his parents' watch three times causing panic and disorder in the house. It was endearing to watch him wander around the room but as soon as he was out of sight it became a manhunt. Craig and Tweek decided they needed a game plan.

Their first goal was to baby proof the house. In his first escape trip, Stripe had wandered into the kitchen and opened all the cabinets he could reach. Tweek had found him when he heard one of his heaviest pots crash on the floor inches from the baby. So they needed to keep dangerous items locked away from curious hands.

They would also need to buy outlet sockets. Craig almost had a heart attack when he caught Stripe trying to lick an electrical outlet. As he removed him, he also noticed the tangled wires peeking out from behind the bookshelf. He tried to tuck it back in but knew Stripe would not leave it alone if he noticed it.

Finally they agreed they couldn't fully eliminate all dangers in the house and would need a way to ensure Stripe stayed put. With their list completed, they were ready to hit the store. They grabbed Stripe, restocked the diaper bag, and drove off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stripe was amazed with his new surroundings. Everywhere he turned there were new people and new stuff. He wished he could explore the place but his mama had sat him on top of a metal cage with wheels. At least his mama and dada kept moving him around so he could look at everything.

Stripe's gaze kept roaming the shelves as the cart was pushed into an aisle full of baby items. His mama and dada were very interested in the items on the wall and started placing them in the cage behind Stripe. He tried to turn around to look at the items but the strap around his waist made it difficult. He quickly gave up and decided to look around instead.

Soon his mama and dada were done with the wall and pushed the cart into another aisle. Stripe noticed larger boxes on the walls and pictures of what looked like cages. Again, mama and dada began to inspect the items on the wall and Stripe watched silently. Suddenly mama and dada began to argue about something.

“No Tweek! I refuse to put him in that one! Pick anything else but not that one!” Dada said as he covered one of the pictures.

“But Craig, I know Stripe would love it. Watch. Ohh Stripe.” Mama sweetly called out.

The baby perked up at his name. His mama pushed on dada’s hand to reveal a cage. Stripe squealed and kicked his feet in excitement when he noticed his favorite bear on the cage. His mama picked him up and carried him over to take a closer look at the fun cage.

“Do you like it? Tell Daddy this is the playpen you want.” Mama said as he turned him over to Dada.

Dada sighed and gave Mama a mean look and a middle finger as he pulled out a box with his favorite bear on the side. Stripe was so happy. He didn't notice the death glares dada was giving the bear on the box.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At home, Stripe sat in his new playpen playing with the new plushies that came included. He was thrilled to see he now had a smaller version of his bear, a pink piggy, and an orange tiger. He enjoyed sticking the plushies in his mouth to hear the crinkly sounds as he chewed them.

Tweek and Craig were working hard to baby proof the house. Craig had plugged all the outlets and Tweek had installed baby locks on all the cabinets. They occasionally glanced towards the playpen relieved that Stripe was finally confined to one place. They high fived each other feeling accomplished in their goal to keep Stripe alive another day.

Ch20

Ch22

[diabolus1exmachina]

Icona Vulcano Titanium

Described as the world’s first titanium hyper car, the Vulcano Titanium was shown for the first time at the Salon Privé Concours d’Elégance 2016 event, an annual gathering of the most exclusive cars in the world.

The one-off Vulcano Titanium is a completely unique car, inspired by the world’s fastest plane, the titanium-made SR-71 Blackbird. With a streamlined silhouette, from the outset the initial idea for the Vulcano was to use a front mid-engine layout, with a ‘strongly sculpted’ body which would ‘evacuate’ the hot air from the engine and reduce the air turbulence generated by the wheels.

The Vulcano uses a consistent theme of dynamic triangles set in horizontal symmetry, reminiscent of the brand’s logo, while the bare titanium body was built in Italy by renowned one-off and prototype manufacturer CECOMP, involving more than 10,000 hours of hand-crafted work.

The high tech interior design has a racing-inspired feel and is made principally from carbon fibre, trimmed in Poltrona Frau Leather as well as black Alcantara. The driver is surrounded by screens including a large touch screen in the console, gathering together functions such as GPS, radio and car diagnostics but also air conditioning.

A 12.3-inch TFT display configures a number of different modes and provides the driver with all key information in a digital format. The most important functions such as start, lights, indicators or windows remain analogue with ‘pilot’ functions such as an aero wing deployment switch found on the steering wheel.

The drivetrain and suspension is the work of ex-Scuderia Ferrari engineer director Claudio Lombardi along with Mario Cavagnero, head of 'Italtecnica' and father of some of the most famous world champion race cars. Their combined experience and skills ensure that the Vulcano lapped the Nurburgring in under 7 min and 20 sec. The V8 supercharged engine generates its propulsion from a 6.2 litre displacement, producing a power output of 670 hp and a maximum torque of 820 Nm at 6,600 rpm, and is mated to a fast-shifting 6-speed single-clutch transmission which uses only paddles behind the steering wheel to change gear. With a power-to-weight ratio of 2.38 kilograms per hp, top speed exceeds 220 mph with a 0-62 time of 2.8 seconds.

The Vulcano Titanium runs on lightweight forged aluminium, shod with Pirelli PZERO 285/30 ZR 20 on the front and 355/25 ZR 21 on the rear. The brakes are 6 and 4 piston calipers, and a Brembo carbon-ceramic brake system.

[brightlotusmoon]

I just got reminded of a time when my husband and I were in our long distance relationship, and he called to tell me he had broken his left arm doing something typically stupid and Don't Worry I'll Be Fine.

He'd sat in the waiting room for three hours before he was seen. He refused to let them cut off his leather jacket and shrugged out of it somehow without passing out. He grabbed the doctor by the crotch and demanded painkillers. (Remember, he's Clark Kent.)

His arm was broken cleanly right next to the radial nerve and was weighted down with metal to keep the nerve from being damaged. I took the Jitney to see him over winter break, and he slept in a La-Z-Boy armchair for two months. He had been flexing and strengthening his arm, so when the cast came off he was able to lift a mug when most people couldn't.

His arm gained a couple of inches from hanging to allow new bone growth, so sleeves haven't fit right for 21 years.

The funny thing is, if James hadn't jerked the wheel of the Jeep to throw him off, Spouse would have crouched on the hood then vaulted through the top into the seats. Of course, if the two of them hadn't been casually practicing Pretend To Kill Each Other in the parking lot like the Winchester brothers, none of it would have happened.

The more I think about it, the more Dean and Sam and Crowley I see in him. With a dash of Clark Kent.

[zipzapzopzoop]

There's a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow

Chapter 21: Free Bird

(Warning, there's a lot in this chapter. Heads up for a character getting hit by a car and another shot. Warning for car accidents and guns. If you cannot handle those please look out for yourself and skip this chapter. Read at your own risk)

They had taken a few turns already, and more arrows were beginning to show themselves. They didn’t look like normal graffiti, each arrow had a bit of thought put into it.

Some were several colors, some looked like they were twisted around, some ran from the floors to the walls or vice versa, a few were even painted in such a way they could only be seen at certain angles.

Like Laszlo wanted to let his family know it was him.

The sound of moving machines and gentle waves hinted that they weren’t far from the Midtown Canal. Gaston followed a red and blue striped arrow a corner into the next street. It was a more narrow street, only enough for one way traffic. 

“Ah, lookie there!” Grandpa Bud pointed to an arrow on an archway over a tunnel. Tallulah cheered and they began to follow until…

A pair of headlights lit up in the tunnel.

Gaston stopped the car. “Am I going the wrong way?” He looked around for street signs, thinking he had missed something.

Tallulah was looking out the side mirror when she noticed another large black car pull up the other side of the alleyway and stop.

Blocking their exits.

“Gaston…?” Tallulah glanced at her uncle. He stayed facing forward, but gave a subtle glance to her. A warning glance. 

Two men donning all black climbed out of the vehicle in the tunnel. Grandpa Bud noticed two more get out of the other vehicle. “Mmm… That’s a bit odd,” Bud hummed, squinting. 

The men all began heading towards their car.

Gaston didn’t budge an inch. He kept his eyes focused on the men in front of them. 

“Put your seatbelt on…” he whispered to Tallulah. Wide eyed, she obeyed, and made certain Bud did the same.

All three of them were frozen. None said a word. The only sounds were the soft early 2000s music over the radio and the rumble of the car motor. Tallulah was shaking.

Gaston’s hand tightened on the steering wheel, the other resting on the stick shift.

Two of the men stopped and stood behind the car. One of the men approaching from the tunnel stopped and stood in front of the car. The fourth man came up to the driver’s side and knocked on the window.

There was a pause, before Gaston put it in reverse and slammed on the acceleration.

Tallulah screamed as one of the men was hit and the two in front pulled out guns and began shooting at the car. “Incoming! Get down!” Gaston shouted. Tallulah and Bud ducked down and the car picked up speed, slamming into the vehicle blocking them. It broke the driver and passenger side windows except for the one on Bud’s left.

Despite the Thunderbird being smaller, it managed to bump the SUV out of the way enough to get through. “Like the modifications? Truck bumpers!” Gaston teased.

He put it in drive and the tires screeched as they sped out of that street, leaving the men scrambling to get back into their vehicles.

Tallulah’s fiery red hair whipped around as she watched the speedometer needle climb up into the 80s. Gaston was weaving through traffic with the precision of a man who lived for the rush of adrenaline. Tallulah could see on his face that he loved the wind in his face, especially with the little bits of glass that grazed his skin. Gaston was an adrenaline junkie, through and through.

“Oi!” One of the SUVs swerved in from the side and was keeping level with them. The other began closing in on their other side. The passenger to their left pulled out his gun and aimed it at the stuntman.

Gaston hit the brakes and they fell back just in time to hear gunshots. The car to their right began to lose control and slammed into the concrete median.

Gaston laughed like a madman and switched gears, ready to pick up speed again. 

“Lookout!” Tallulah shrieked.

The other vehicle crossed in front of them. The Thunderbird slammed into the side corner of the SUV and spun out of control. They broke through the iron barrier and went flying backwards into the canal.

The backend of the Thunderbird was sinking faster, the hood and headlights tilting upwards and sinking a moment later.

The car was filling with water fast.

Bud and Tallulah undid their seatbelts. Tallulah pushed Bud out the passenger side window and turned to address Gaston. The impact had knocked the stuntman completely unconscious.

Cold water reached their waists as Tallulah wrestled with his seatbelt. The damn thing was stuck! The music on the radio began to muffle when the speakers became submerged. She shouted out in frustration when the water was reaching their chests. Finally, she got it and the seatbelt clicked open. The water climbed up to their necks as she wrestled him from the seat and pulled him through the window, fighting against the rapidly rushing water. Some of the leftover broken glass from the window cut her shoulder, but she was in no place to worry about that now.

Tallulah kicked off her skates and pulled her uncle from under his arms. 

She sucked in a loud gasp when they reached the surface of the pitch black canal. Tallulah’s lungs burned and ached as she caught her breath, nearly panicking until she was sure Gaston’s face was out of the water as well. She dragged him by the back of his jumpsuit and swam to the wall of the canal, where Bud was waiting anxiously.

“Here!” She lifted him as best as she could. “Take him!” Bud took the unconscious stuntman under the shoulders and hauled him up onto the shore. Bud reached back down to help his niece up. When they were all three safely on the shore, Tallulah half-collapsed next to them and rolled onto her back, panting and exhausted. 

Gaston choked and sat up suddenly. He coughed out some water and glanced around. He saw the car’s headlights at the bottom of the canal, and looked over at Tallulah and Bud. Everyone was accounted for. He laid back down to catch his breath. “Woo.” He gave a little fist pump with the little energy he had. The three laid there for a moment.

“Is this a bad time to mention I left my teeth in the car?”

Gaston paused… and started to laugh. Tallulah joined in, and Bud followed. The three of them couldn’t help but laugh at the silliness after everything. 

What an adventure.

------

Check out the chapter on my Archive!

[rideanddrive]

Mercedes-AMG GT63 PRO: Unleash Ultimate Power and Precision

Mercedes-AMG GT63 PRO: Unleash Ultimate Power and Precision Get ready to experience the next level of driving with the Mercedes-AMG GT63 PRO. Powered by a 612 hp V8 biturbo engine, this beast rockets from 0 to 200 km/h in just 10.9 seconds, with a top speed of 317 km/h—faster and fiercer than ever before. Whether you’re hitting the track or cruising the streets, this car is designed to deliver an adrenaline-pumping experience at every turn.

Key Features:

Enhanced Aerodynamics: The new front apron with carbon fiber accents, active air deflectors, and a fixed rear wing drastically improve downforce and reduce aerodynamic lift, giving you precision steering and control at high speeds.

Superior Cooling: With additional radiators and active cooling for the drivetrain, the GT63 PRO stays cool even under extreme conditions, ensuring unstoppable performance during intense driving sessions.

Track-Ready Performance: Equipped with 21-inch forged wheels and Michelin Pilot Sport tyres, plus a high-performance ceramic braking system, the GT63 PRO offers unmatched stopping power, durability, and agility, just like a true race car.

Motorsport-Inspired Interior: Inside, you’ll find AMG Performance seats with high lateral support, a Nappa leather steering wheel, and exclusive carbon fiber accents, making you feel like you're in the cockpit of a high-performance machine.

[forgeline]

The Forgeline FB3C is a throwback to the original 20-slot wheel found on the third-generation Pontiac Firebird Formula. But unlike the original, the FB3C is a modern 3-piece wheel that is manufactured from fully forged 6061-T6 aluminum centers using the latest engineering and manufacturing technology. With its unique concave 20-slot design (5 sets of 4 slots), integrated lug holes, and creative machining details, the FB3C evokes a 1980s muscle car flavor while delivering modern technology and performance. The FB3C is built with true forged 6061-T6 aluminum centers, aircraft-quality ARP stainless steel hidden fasteners, and heat-treated rim sections. The FB3C is available with a flat-lip reverse outer in 18-inch, 19-inch, 20-inch, and 22-inch fitments or with a stepped-lip outer in 19-inch, 20-inch, and 21-inch fitments. It features a standard powder coated center finish with a polished outer rim, but since each wheel is custom built-to-order, Forgeline also offers special features like custom offsets and a virtually unlimited choice of finish combinations. Learn more about the FB3C (including sizes and pricing) at: https://www.forgeline.com/fb3c/p414